


So Many Vows

by ser_mlady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, brief Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, mentions of marital rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ser_mlady/pseuds/ser_mlady
Summary: Brandon was held prisoner throughout Robert’s Rebellion and became Lord of Winterfell after the war. At Robert's urging, Ned stayed in King's Landing and joined the Kingsguard. But he hadn't imagined Robert would be such a poor king, nor had he predicted how badly his oaths would chafe.Certainly, he never expected he'd begin to sympathize with the Kingslayer.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Ned Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**283**

Ned didn’t join the Kingsguard to protect Robert. Not truly. More so, he worried about his friend’s state of mind. Though the worst of Ned’s anger had faded after he returned to King’s Landing following Lyanna’s death, he couldn’t forget the way Robert had smiled when he saw the bodies of the prince and princess placed before the throne, nor the strange inflection in his voice when he called them Dragonspawn.

With Brandon back at Winterfell—too weak to accompany Ned on that last, desperate attempt to save Lyanna—and an heir already born to Lady Catelyn, Ned had no duty to return North; instead, instinct told him his greatest obligation was to the king, ensuring the sorrow of war and the stresses of kingship wouldn’t prove too much for him.

The choice wasn’t easy. King’s Landing reeked. The people were loud and numerous, and the Red Keep full of lords he didn’t trust. More than anything, he wished to go home. But even should he leave, Ned feared he no longer had a home to return to. What place would he have at Winterfell with Brandon and his wife? In the letter Brandon sent saying he'd arrived at the castle, he'd mentioned that even Benjen wanted to take the black. And now that Robert and Jon Arryn lived in King’s Landing, the Vale held no appeal.

So he accepted Robert’s request. The morning he was to swear his vows, Ned pulled Howland Reed aside and asked him to take Jon Snow to Greywater Watch. Brandon hated Rhaegar with a passion equal to Robert’s, and he’d been brittle and angry when they’d pulled him from the black cells. While it wasn’t likely Brandon would see the prince in Jon's features, Ned couldn’t risk it. “Claim him as my bastard,” Ned pleaded. “See that he’s cared for. I promised…”

Howland embraced him. “I loved her too, Ned. I’ll raise him as I would a son.”

That final matter seen to, Ned felt only slight unease as he swore his vows in the godswood, to Robert alone. He’d refused to be knighted; he was of the old gods, and he would remain theirs. When it was done, Robert clasped the white cloak himself and yanked Ned to his feet. It was meant to be an honor, but war and death had left Ned too tired to feel any compliment in it. The fabric hung too heavy in the southron heat, and the cloak seemed a burden alone. 

Robert clapped Ned on the back, their fight about Rhaegar’s children seemingly the last thing on his mind. As if reconciliation meant forgetting. “Now you’re stuck here with me,” he boomed cheerfully. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone in this place.”

“It is an honor to serve you, Your Grace,” Ned said. Too formally.

“ _Your Grace_? I’ll throttle you if you call me that. I can’t just forget we’re friends. Brothers, more than _Stannis_ is, with his moaning and teeth grinding. Ned, please.”

“It wouldn’t be proper in front of others.”

Robert threw his hands up. “Fine, fine. Do what you like. You and your honor.” But he belied the words by pulling Ned into a embrace. “I’m glad you’re not leaving.”

Ned wasn’t certain he felt the same.

He’d worried Ser Barristan would resent him for the deaths of his sworn brothers, but the older knight didn’t bring up the matter at all. He treated Ned respectfully, though distantly, at first. Ned gathered this stemmed from his own grief, his uncertainty of his place now the war was over and he was sworn to a new king. Nothing in his manner suggested it was a problem with Ned, nor that it’d last.

Ned was no warmer. He couldn’t be. He’d felt cold since Lyanna died clutching his hand.

In time, perhaps they could be friends. For the moment, there was at least quiet respect.

Ned entertained no such respect for the sole other Kingsguard who occupied the White Sword Tower those first weeks. Jaime Lannister alternated between sulking like a child whenever he saw Ned, smirking and making a mockery of conversation when they were forced to be near one another, and growing outright hostile.

Ned hated him. He hated few people, but he wasn’t in a forgiving mind, and the boy quickly developed a habit of seeking him out and mocking him: about his lack of knighthood, about how _honored_ he was to serve with such an illustrious hero, about his gods and his face and his unexceptional skill with a sword.

When possible, Ned refused to say a word when Ser Jaime grew confrontational. He’d bite his tongue and try to extract himself. If that didn’t work, he forced himself to remain civil, unwilling to sink to exchanging petty insults with an oathbreaker. “I don’t want to talk with you,” he’d say, or, “You shame yourself speaking thus.” Ser Jaime only ever snorted or scoffed and made some additional biting remark before striding away with a cold face and burning eyes.

One evening as he and Ser Barristan walked from the White Sword Tower together, Ned had to ask, “Why would Ser Arthur knight such a man?”

Ser Barristan’s expression grew sad. “Ser Arthur liked him. Most of us did. Even I did not think… Jaime has always been arrogant, but amusing, and he worshiped the ground Arthur walked on. He was too young, but he had promise.” He shook his head. “He’s been different since the war ended. I suppose he assumes that because he’s killed a king, he has nothing left to lose. Or perhaps he’s decided he can act as he pleases without getting into trouble, since his pardon made that clear. I couldn’t say.”

Ned didn’t put too much thought into this. Whatever prompted the change in Ser Jaime’s behavior, nothing could justify his killing of Aerys, nor would it be easy to explain away his persistent unpleasantness.

Ned avoided him as much as he was able.

If Ned could’ve prevented it, he would’ve stopped Robert from marrying the Lannister woman in an instant. It was too big a boon for Tywin and his house. But when he attempted to offer a subtle, reasonable protest—careful not to overstep—Robert threw his hands up and said, “I don’t _want_ the woman, Ned. Seven hells, if you’re going to complain, talk to Jon.”

Ned tried.

Jon looked at him sadly. “We need Tywin Lannister’s support. What better way to guarantee it?”

“You are rewarding murder and betrayal.”

“We are rewarding our allies. Now go on. I will hear no more of it. You and Robert have had your fight about the Lannisters already.”

Jon’s tone said that was the end of it, and Ned was forced to stand and watch as a man who was like a father to him wed his near-brother to a house willing to slaughter innocents to bolster its reputation.

Yet he found, in the wake of the wedding, it wasn’t Robert he pitied. Cersei Lannister was an incredibly beautiful woman, more so than any Ned had seen save Ashara Dayne; yet even at the wedding feast, Robert’s eyes strayed. Drink loosened his tongue, and his lewd comments, untoward but acceptable if made about the bride, didn’t remain concentrated on her.

Worst still, Robert wouldn’t cease talking about Lyanna. Only to Ned, yet loudly enough those nearby could hear. Loudly enough his bride could hear.

“Robert,” Ned finally hissed, aware he wasn’t to contradict the king. Not caring, just then. “It isn’t the place.”

Robert wouldn’t listen. “It should’ve been her, Ned. I only wanted…”

Cersei Lannister’s smile turned brittle, her eyes troubled. She was seventeen. Not much younger than Ned, but it felt it in that moment. She looked off to the side, eyes nearly desperate. Ned followed her gaze and realized she was staring at her brother.

He’d never seen Ser Jaime so angry. The younger knight stood at his post, dressed in white. On duty. His face was red with fury, twisted so much it nearly made him ugly. His eyes shone pink and glassy, and were as focused on his sister as hers on him. _Fix it,_ and _There_ _’s nothing I can do,_ were written clearly on both their faces.

Ned looked away. He hadn’t understood, not truly, why Lyanna had run. But he saw his sister in Cersei Lannister’s eyes, could picture Robert as the girl no doubt saw him. He understood his sister now, and he’d never felt so sick at his friend.

Within a fortnight of the wedding, Robert had whores in the Red Keep. Ned wanted to talk to Robert about it. He wasn’t supposed to judge the king. He eventually confessed his struggle to Ser Barristan. The look the man gave him didn’t sit well. When Selmy finally spoke, it was with careful, almost exaggerated precision. “It isn’t honorable behavior for a king, but… it could be worse than a few whores.”

It was the first time Ned considered what it would have been to serve in the Kingsguard under Aerys. He spent the following days wrestling with the thought, returning to it in quiet moments. He wondered more than once what he would’ve done had he been sworn to the Mad King when his father was burned. No matter how he approached the problem, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what would constitute an honorable response.

Worse yet, he feared he knew what he would’ve done. If Aerys tried to kill his father in front of him, Ned never would have allowed it.

**284**

Robert held a feast celebrating the anniversary of the Sack of King’s Landing. Ned noticed from the beginning that he’d been drinking too much, too quickly, and he wasn’t surprised when he pulled the queen into his arms and gave her a raucous kiss in front of the hall.

“I want you tonight, woman,” Robert said.

Cersei returned to her seat, putting as much space between them as possible. Ned was close enough to hear her hiss, “I’m on my moon’s blood.”

“You just were—”

“It happens every _month_ ,” she spat back.

“Oh, what do I care? It’s just a little blood.”

“I do not want—”

“Woman, I will have my rights.”

She stood and strode from the room without another word. Ned’s hands shook. He hoped that would be the end of it. Ser Jaime was also on duty, and he stood staring fixedly across the room, his smile so rigid his face looked like it might crack. After another hour, Robert hauled himself to his feet and announced he planned to retire. Ned’s hands trembled.

When they reached his chambers, Robert threw the door open and released a growl when he found no queen within. “That bloody woman.” He stormed into the room and went to the door that connected their chambers. “I _said—_ _”_

Ned only glimpsed Cersei when she appeared in her doorway, wearing a loose nightgown that rippled across her body.

“I know what you said. What did I say? Or are you too drunk to remember?”

“You have no say,” Robert said, reaching for her.

Cersei’s gaze went over his shoulder. Toward the door. Ned thought initially she was looking at him. He realized only belatedly that it was her twin whose eyes she sought.

She shook her head, so minutely Ned near missed it.

The fight left her stance, but ice remained in her eyes. “Very well. As my husband wishes.”

Ser Jaime shut the door.

_She did that for him. So he would not have to watch—_

Rape. It would have been rape.

No. It _is_. It, Robert—

“Cersei doesn’t want your protection, Stark.” Jaime leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, all color gone from his face. “I’ve been given orders not to touch a hair on Robert’s head. She is queen. She can handle herself. That’s what she told me. She doesn’t wish us to interfere.”

Ned couldn’t help himself. “She told you those things so you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“You, Robert, your father and brother, all started a war when a man kidnapped your sister, supposedly to keep in a tower to use as he pleased. You killed three kingsguard because of it.” He opened his eyes, his gaze returning to the door. “You’d judge me for wishing harm upon a single man? I need not even kill him. Gelding would be sufficient.”

Through the door, Ned could hear Robert grunting. He didn’t hear Cersei at all.

“You should be glad you never guarded our former queen,” Jaime told him bitterly. “She used to scream when her husband took her. _Stop, stop, you_ _’re hurting me._ You’d have had fits, if the likes of me misliked the sound.”

“Robert is not Aerys.”

“No, he isn’t.” Ser Jaime moved a step from the door, as if to distance himself from the noises coming from within. “Go, Stark. Robert is too drunk to know if you leave. I can see your honor straining already. I’ve got none left to be harmed.”

“It is my duty,” Ned said.

Jaime’s smile burned. “Ah, of course. Such a noble duty at that.”

Ned had no response to give. Ser Jaime didn’t speak another word the rest of the night.

Ned was assigned to guard the queen, though he could hardly look the woman in the eye anymore. Cersei told him she’d like a walk in the gardens, and they went out together, the two of them alone.

She stopped Ned once they were out of immediate sight of the Red Keep. His head remained bowed. She put her hand on his cheek to catch his gaze. “How do you refer to a man of the Kingsguard who isn’t a knight? You’re not a lord, in truth.”

“'My lord' is fine, nonetheless.”

Her hand was soft, her fingers cool but smooth. “Or I could call you Eddard.”

“You could,” he said carefully. He felt sorry for her. That didn’t mean he trusted her.

She lowered her hand. Smoothed her skirts. “Jaime tells me you worry for me.”

Ned didn’t know how to respond without dancing around oathbreaking. He said, finally, “His Grace doesn’t always treat you honorably.”

“He’s a drunken brute still in love with your dead sister. Do not mince words.” Cersei pinned him with her gaze. “You might influence him.”

 _So that’s what this is._ Ned drew back. “It isn’t my place.”

“You’re his friend, are you not? He cares what you think. I don’t expect much. A suggestion he be more subtle with his whores and more careful with his drinking might go far.”

It was hard to say no. She was beautiful, but there was more to it than that. Perhaps it was that she was so careful with what she requested. She made no demand that he save her, no impossible bid for him to stop Robert’s attentions. Things Ned couldn’t do. She asked for what was possible, small though it was.

When he doesn’t respond right away, the queen said, “Think about it.”

He did. And he tried to bring it up to the king when they were next alone. He was relieved when Robert didn’t take offense, and said good-naturedly he’d do what he can.

Relief faded to naively surprised bitterness when his friend spent less than a week playing at good behavior before he began to act precisely as he had before.

On the whole, Robert wasn’t a good king. He didn’t attend small council meetings. He drank too much and hunted too often, and he held feasts and tourneys without a concern for cost.

“I know,” said Jon Arryn when Ned came to him about it. “I control him as I can, but he is stubborn as ever. I love both of you like sons, Ned, but it’s becoming clear that a father can’t always like the way his children behave. It is a comfort to me that you are doing well.”

 _Am I?_ Ned took no pride from his duties. His sworn brothers save Ser Barristan were borderline unbearable, and only Ser Jaime—who was leagues beyond unbearable—seemed troubled by the king’s behavior. Even then, the Kingslayer didn’t express concern, but japed and scowled and said, “Don’t we serve a fine king, Stark?” in such a grating tone, that even though Ned thought along the same lines, he glared Jaime into silence whenever he spoke thus.

Ned said none of this to Jon Arryn. Though he knew his dissatisfaction was legitimate, that the dishonor was in serving without speaking up, he feared Jon wouldn’t see it the same way. He abandoned the conversation before it could progress further, not trusting himself to hold his tongue.

**285**

Ned had served as a knight of the Kingsguard for over two years when he came across the queen and her brother. Ser Jaime hadn’t been on duty, Ned standing guard at a feast while Robert grew drunker and drunker. When the king groped a serving woman in plain sight of his wife, the queen made an excuse and disappeared.

When Ned was relieved by Ser Mandon not long after, compulsion prompted him to seek out Cersei to inquire after her wellbeing. He heard voices as he approached her chambers.

“Would you stop that—hurry, please. It makes me nervous that you’re here. What if he comes back?”

“I’ll fight him for you if you’d like. I’m sick of rushing. I want things to be nice for a short while. Let me…”

“Jaime—” A harsh intake of breath, and her tone changed. “Yes. _Jaime._ _”_

There was no mistaking either voice. Ned had heard both far too often since coming to the Red Keep. _I cannot be hearing properly. I am misunderstanding._

There was no misunderstanding when with shaking hands, he cracked open the door and peered into the room. Both were still mostly dressed, but the queen’s skirts were shoved up, the ties of her gown loosened enough to let her breasts spill free. Jaime’s shirt was untucked, breeches unlaced, and he knelt on the bed with his head hidden beneath her skirts.

For a moment, Ned could only stare, a horrible part of him wishing to draw closer. There was something cleansing in watching the softness in Cersei’s features as she clutched at her brother, at witnessing the care Jaime took with her, after seeing her dismissed and thrown around like Robert’s plaything. He could hardly even see Jaime, but motion caught Ned’s eye, the younger man’s free hand moving to his cock, squeezing as Cersei tightened her thighs around him. 

Ned felt his cock stir and tore his eyes away. Reminded himself of what he was seeing. _She is the queen. He is a Kingsguard._

He wanted nothing more than to slip off and pretend he hadn’t seen, embarrassed to have witnessed as much as he had. But leaving wasn’t an option. He kicked the door frame, and the twins flew immediately apart. Jaime scrambled to his feet. He’d left his sword nearby, and it was near comical, the way he grabbed it off the floor and stood in front of the bed, staring at Ned with the blade raised, as if he’d fight him with his cock hanging out. 

Cersei broke a long silence. “Close the door, Eddard. Please.” A note of fear in her voice made him listen. Jaime eyed Ned another moment, but lowered his sword, and with an audible breath propped it against the bed to tie his laces. His sister adjusted her dress so she was covered.

Ned drew back over. “How long?”

“Always,” Cersei said, fear now hidden. Her voice took on a tone of pride. “He came out of the womb clutching my heel. We’ve been inseparable since. We’re like two halves of a person.” She reached out, and despite knowing it couldn’t possibly help her situation, reached for her twin’s hand and wove their fingers together. “This, us, together _—_ it’s only that, taken to its natural conclusion.”

Ser Jaime showed his teeth. “Robert has his whores, his wenches, whatever ladies he can talk into his bed, and they don’t mean a thing to him, none of them. Is it so horrible that she has one person, one person who cares for her when her husband does nothing but deny her the smallest amount of respect?”

Ned looked evenly at him. “What of your vows?”

“Ser Lewyn had a paramour. Ser Barristan and _Arthur Dayne_ looked the other way.”

“I don’t imagine his paramour was the queen,” Ned said, anger creeping into his voice. He wouldn’t touch the matter of them being brother and sister. It wasn’t the point, not now, not in this. “Do you understand the potential consequences of this? If you were to have children, it would destroy the line of succession.”

“Who would know?” Jaime said.

His sister struck his arm. “Are you stupid?” She peered at Ned. “We would not. I am careful.”

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know what to believe, what to do. _Tell Robert,_ was his first thought. The obvious thought. But the two of them looked jarringly young, Cersei curled on the bed, Jaime at an angle, his body just in front of hers in a way that was unmistakably protective.

Robert very well might kill them both. Kill them, though Jaime was correct, that the queen’s worst crime was one lover, against however many dozen he’s had in the time since they married. But to remain silent…

The words came forth before Ned could think them through. “It can’t happen again.”

Already that was too big a concession, one steeped in dishonor. But the queen wouldn’t accept it. “You would have me remain the faithful wife? The loving wife? While Robert whores? While he yells and insults me and ruts on me like an animal? Am I to live without love?”

“Ser Jaime has sworn an oath that says he should be doing precisely that. It is his duty. You have your own duty. There was never a guarantee it wouldn’t require a similar sacrifice.”

“When has Robert ever done his duty? When he has kept his vows to me? Why should a king be able to do whatever he pleases, no matter how dishonorable, while the rest of us are bound by the principles he rejects?”

“If everyone were to reject honor and cease doing as they promise, no one could trust anyone else. Words would be nothing but wind.”

“Words _are_ nothing but wind.”

“Words have the meaning men give them,” he countered. He narrowed his eyes at Ser Jaime. “What do words mean to you? Have you any respect at all for the vows you took?”

“I have no respect for the men to whom I swore them,” Jaime said flatly. “I didn’t fully understand when I swore to Aerys, and I had no choice but to swear to Robert. Ignorance and coercion rarely lead to loyalty.”

“Am I to pity you? You made your choices. A true knight would accept the consequences.” Ned was sick of all this, this entire business. Dealing with the twins, yes, but being a Kingsguard, living in King’s Landing. He had no patience for more. “Talk of it amongst yourselves. Run to Essos if you can’t help it. But if you remain, you must stop, or I will tell my king.”

He left before either Lannister could respond, his stomach threatening to heave the entire walk back to the White Sword Tower. There’d been no honor in any of that. Duty, common sense, honor… they all told him to tell Robert. _It will not hurt to warn them. I had to warn them._

He hadn’t been supposed to warn them.

Ned slept poorly that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the only Cersei/Jaime in the fic, right there. Also, this was mostly establishing Ned's mental place, so he and Jaime interact far more in the coming chapters.
> 
> Have to give [this meta](https://wickedjaime.tumblr.com/post/624745736000667648/how-grrm-accidentally-wrote-jaime-as-a-repressed) credit for inspiring this story. For anyone who doesn't want to read a very long essay, it's a wonderful analysis of Jaime (probably unintentionally) being written as a bi in the books, and includes a section about his interactions with Ned that spawned this. If you're interested in just the Ned/Jaime part of the meta, it's near the middle. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the first chapter :).


	2. Chapter 2

**286**

Ned couldn’t tell whether Cersei and Jaime stopped. Now that he knew to look for it, he noticed things he hadn’t before. Tender looks. Touches that might’ve suggested fondness between siblings, but which lingered seconds too long. The way their eyes followed each other.

But if they acted on their impulses, they did so too subtly for him to note. It made him uneasy, his inability to determine whether they continued to commit treason. He suspected they did, solely because he trusted neither to make the right choice.

Ned still didn’t go to Robert. He reasoned that he hadn’t seen them, so it wouldn’t be right to make assumptions that could get two people killed. But sometimes he feared his silence was a small revenge against the king. For using Lyanna’s death to excuse his bad behavior. For calling in whores specifically when Jaime was on guard. For hurting Cersei, then later complaining to Ned of her frigidness in bed.

He couldn’t stop Robert, his position wouldn’t let him, but he could have this small rebellion.

Then the queen was announced as being with child. 

Fear gripped Ned. Anger as well, turned inward most of all. _I need to tell him, I need to tell him._ But he didn’t have the chance to work up the motivation before Ser Jaime found him in the Round Room of the White Sword Tower, the younger man wide-eyed and pale as his cloak. He walked swiftly to Ned and bent over him, bracing his hands on either side of Ned’s chair.

“Tell me you haven’t said anything,” he said, his voice a frantic whisper. “It wasn’t me. I swear it. It cannot have been me.”

Ned was surprised enough by the intrusion on his personal space that it took him several seconds to respond. “ _Cannot_ have been?”

Jaime looked around and leaned forward further, a flush rising on his cheeks. “We haven’t met often since you found us, and I haven’t spilled inside her. We knew your silence wouldn’t go on if you thought I’d gotten her with child. It’s been long enough, she’d have known before, if it’d been me.”

The brief speech revealed two falsehoods Jaime and Cersei had given Ned: they hadn’t stopped when he’d ordered, and Jaime’s wording made it clear they’d been taking no measures to keep the queen from getting pregnant, before.

Ned drew a careful breath. He was unnervingly aware of how close Jaime Lannister stood, his cloak brushing Ned’s legs, face close enough to make apparent the different shades of green in his eyes. Jaime seemed to notice their proximity at the same time, and he straightened and stepped away.

“You told me you wouldn’t continue at all,” Ned said.

“I know that," the Kingslayer said, to Ned's surprise. "I know I have oaths. But how am I to stop?” As he spoke the final sentence, he sat in the chair across from Ned’s and gave him an expectant look. Waiting for a response.

“How are you to…” Ned began incredulously. “Don’t do it. That’s how you stop.”

Jaime scowled. “Oh, don't look at me like that. I’m not hurting anyone. Is it truly so bad when we’re being careful?”

“If anyone has reason to doubt the parentage of Robert’s children, there may be war.” Ned spoke slowly, like he was addressing a child. “Thousands could die.”

“Wars have been waged over stupider things.”

Ned rose. “If that is how you look at it, I cannot reason with you.”

“As if you ever thought I’d listen to reason,” Jaime snapped. “The monstrous Kingslayer? You’ve long known me to be devoid of honor.”

“Honor,” Ned said coldly, “isn’t something you have or you don’t. It’s a choice. Act honorably, and you have honor. This has nothing to do with killing Aerys.”

“Of course it does. Everything does. I could never touch Cersei again, I could keep every oath I ever took, and I’d still be a wretched oathbreaker. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Ned stared at him. With a swooping stomach, he remembered the first time he’d asked Barristan Selmy about Jaime, the Lord Commander's remark that his behavior had been _different_ since the rebellion. It occurred to Ned that Jaime Lannister hadn’t been fully formed spitting venom, glaring and casting aside oaths on a whim. Arthur Dayne had knighted him. _He isn’t a monster. He has given up._

“Sometimes, there is justice in giving lasting punishment if a crime is bad enough,” Ned said after a moment. “But you haven’t been punished. Robert forgave you. You have a second chance. I cannot speak for others, but…” He wondered what he was saying. Felt tired, but Jaime Lannister looked equally weary. Weary and human, and trying too hard to appear indifferent. Ned wasn’t sure he meant his next words, but a half-formed suspicion put them on his tongue. “But I’d forgive the kingslaying if your behavior now wasn’t so questionable.”

Jaime squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and tried to scowl. “What do I care what you think? You aren’t an expert on honor.”

“No,” Ned agreed, surprised. “I’ve made my own mistakes, but I do what I can. I try.” He felt half a fool, but made himself ask, “You’d truly not care if a war was fought because you gave the Seven Kingdoms reason to doubt the line of succession?” Unsure whether that’d work, he added, “You wouldn’t care if your sister was killed because someone else discovered you?”

Jaime sank lower in his chair, face twisted. “Damn you,” he said, serious and conflicted and troubled, everything he should’ve been and wasn’t when Ned found him in the throne room. “ _Damn you._ ”

Again, Ned thought of the boy Arthur Dayne knighted. He didn’t need to ask himself what’d happened. Had he not felt the weight on his shoulders from the moment he donned his white cloak? And that, in service to Robert. If it’d been Aerys… _and Jaime, only five and ten._ His head a muddle, so troubled and confused he was dizzy with it, Ned took a small step. He put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. Only for a moment. Then he thought better of it and let it fall.

Jaime gave him such an incredulous stare, Ned proved unable to summon a response. Face hot, he left, fleeing for the godswood and whatever peace he could find within.

That night, he dreamt the Kingslayer came to him in that same chair, his eyes blazing. “How am I to stop?” he demanded of Ned, golden hair tumbling to his shoulders, face intent. “I need her.” He fell to his knees, one of his hands resting on Ned’s thigh. “Unless. I could serve someone else. Is that what you’re after, Stark? Is that what you want from me?”

The room was dim, and Jaime’s eyes nearly black. Ned moved loose curls from his face, then touched his cheek. “There’d be no dishonor in it,” he said. “We’d be breaking no oaths.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed, bold and smirking. “It’d be the _honorable thing_. The Kingslayer redeemed, because he traded his sister’s cunt for Eddard Stark’s cock.” He was already undoing Ned’s laces, then taking him in hand. “I feel a better man already.”

“You said you would serve me. Stop japing, and do as you promised.”

Jaime laughed and held his gaze as he brought his lips around Ned’s length, swallowing him in one elegant motion. His mouth was hot and wet, and Ned gasped as Jaime began to suck him. He tangled his fingers in Jaime’s hair, and—

Ned woke with a jolt, alone in his sleeping cell, aching and hard. He scrambled from bed and threw open his window, shoving his head out into the cool night and taking long breaths as he waited for his arousal to fade.

It was the celibacy, he told himself as he staggered through the next morning. He’d never been one for wenching, had only been with one woman, but was nonetheless a man of three and twenty. While he was perfectly in control of himself, it wasn’t… strange, necessarily, that chastity might twist him toward odd lusts.

It’d happened before, at the Eyrie. With Robert sometimes. Ned had caught himself noticing his muscles or his eyes, the cast of his features. He’d told himself it was normal, something that happened but no one ever talked about, and hadn’t thought anything else of it.

He resolved it would be the same with Jaime Lannister.

Ned guarded Robert until just before the midday meal. When he returned to the White Sword Tower after, he found Jaime in the common room, sitting at the broad, shield-shaped table. He would’ve been happy to return to his room without acknowledging him, but when he glanced over more fully, noted that Jaime had the White Book pulled close to him, studying it with such focus he seemingly hadn’t noticed Ned’s entrance.

His dream momentarily forgotten, Ned indulged a spark of curiosity and approached. “I’ve never seen you reading that before.”

Jaime’s head flew up, and he sneered when he realized who’d spoken. “Perhaps I wanted to laugh at all the dead, honorable fools who did their duty far better than I did. Did you need something, Stark?”

His manner was more defensive than scornful. Ned frowned as he took another step. “I was only surprised. I admit I haven’t looked at it myself.”

Jaime closed the book, not quite looking at him. “I used to. Before…” He smiled sharply. “Go ahead. Read if it please you. You have more right to it.”

 _He thinks I came over to chase him off._ Ned ignored Jaime’s remark. He kept his voice calm. “What possessed you to look through it again now?”

The question made Jaime scowl outright, and he climbed to his feet. “I was only looking. You needn’t interrogate me. I’ll bloody leave, if that’ll—”

“I was curious,” Ned cut in, exasperated. “Trying to make conversation. Stay. Read if you wish.”

He didn’t manage to turn before Jaime blurted, “I was looking for answers. To see…” Ned didn’t understand, not until Jaime added, “Lucamore Strong was gelded by his sworn brothers. Did you know that? I’m sure you’d think that appropriate.”

A headache built in Ned’s temples. “I haven’t considered it.”

Jaime ignored him. “Much of Aemon the Dragonknight’s entry has to do with his queen.”

“Does it?” Ned said.

“I’m not the worst.”

 _You_ _’re the only one who’s killed his king._ But they weren’t talking about that. Ned had said only the previous day he’d forgive it if Jaime behaved more honorably in the future. Not quite the truth, not something he would’ve said if he hadn’t been seized by the odd impression it might make a difference. For the same reason, he didn’t point out the obvious now. He did move closer, his eyes on the book.

“You read it often, before?” Ned said, his voice soft in the room. He found himself wondering whether any of those past Kingsguard doubted or questioned? Had men been made to serve a king and a friend, and found their friendship strained and withering?

Jaime answered in a scornful voice. “I was enamored with knighthood. I loved the damn book. I read it whenever I could.” His tone meant to make a joke of the words, and it didn’t fully manage.

“Does it say anything… were any of them unsatisfied? Did they…”

Jaime shook his head. “The acting Lord Commander writes the entries. If anyone had doubts, they would’ve been painted as malice or treason. A few of Jaehaerys’s Kingsguard were sentenced to the Wall for siding with him against Maegor the Cruel… and the others for siding with Maegor over him. I believe two chose to be executed instead. That’s indicative of how it’s always been. There’s no good choice. Not unless you’ve got a sterling king.”

“You’ve thought about this?”

“Are you ill?” Jaime demanded, turning away. “You’re asking odd questions, and it makes me fear dishonor spreads like a pox. I’d hate to ruin the most sterling pillar of virtue among our ranks.” He moved away from the table. “Let me give you the advice my former sworn brothers liked to give me. Don’t ask questions, do not judge, and do your duty. Honorable advice, from better men than me.”

He strode off soon as he finished speaking.

Ned stared after him, and once he was gone, occupied the chair Jaime had vacated. He flipped through the White Book until he found the Kingsguard Jaime had mentioned, the ones who’d served Maegor. Then he read their stories, scouring each line for what they might’ve been thinking, how they might’ve felt when they made their choices.

It was a long while before he tore himself away.

“You are troubling my brother,” Cersei told him one evening later that week. She had requested he walk her to her rooms early, not wishing to endure a full meal at her husband’s side. The duty was usually Jaime’s, but he’d guarded Robert earlier. Had accompanied the king and Ser Meryn to a brothel.

Ned glanced at her. “I feel I have been tolerant of him.”

Too tolerant. They’d begun speaking more often, small exchanges if they ran into one another in the common room. Once, Jaime had come to the practice yard and found Ned walking through the sort of drills he endured rather than enjoyed, expressed dismay at his swordsmanship, and pestered him with unwanted advice for the better part of an hour.

Jaime remained on-edge through the interactions, but strangely, this tended to be helpful. The more off-footed Jaime grew, the less smooth his barbs, the more his sarcasm felt like defensiveness, and his insults like the weapons of a man expecting an attack. Seeing as much gave Ned the grace to look past those things, and if he softened his manner accordingly, he caught glimpses of what Jaime might’ve been like before Aerys. 

Talkative. Prone to dramatics. Occasionally, actually humorous.

Cersei gave Ned a dark frown. “Your tolerance is the problem. Jaime has grown used to being hated. Now you expect things from him, and he dislikes falling short.”

“Me? What does my opinion matter?”

“Jaime has always admired honorable men,” said Cersei with thinly veiled condescension. “He used to hold some fancy of emulating them, but I’d thought him cured of that after the kingslaying business. He forgets who he is, sometimes.”

“Does he?” Ned asked icily. 

Cersei slowed her steps. “Has he fooled you as much as he’s fooled himself? We are Lannisters, Eddard Stark. It isn’t in our nature to serve meekly and let others tell us what we can and cannot do.” She put a hand on his arm. “Are you jealous? Of him? Of Robert? Perhaps you’d admire virtue less if you tasted the same sins as us flawed mortals.” Her fingers brushed across his gloved hand. “It is cruel of you to try to take him from me, but I can forgive you. There’s no need for us to squabble over this.”

Ned regarded her for a long moment, choosing his words. Finally, he said, “Tread carefully, my lady. It wasn’t so long ago you told me that you needed your brother. That you could not _help_ but be with him. I might pity you less if I thought there a lie in that.” _And pity Jaime more._

Her eyes burned green, and her mouth was hard as she reclaimed her hand. “You fathered one bastard, then foisted him off on that frog eater. Do not act superior.”

“Do not insult my friends. Howland Reed is worth ten of you.” They reached the door to her bedchamber. Ned wondered if she’d meant to invite him within, if she would’ve been so bold. His next words bit past clenched teeth. “And take care with your brother. He is trying.”

Cersei laughed at him. “What does that matter? He will fail.”

Because he was a Lannister, Ned surmised. He was hers. He was like her. If Jaime chose to honor his vows, to stop meeting with her, she’d lose him in that way… and she might lose him in others, as well.

Ned’s eyes roved her face, searching for doubt or guilt, any indication she was uneasy about speaking thus of her brother, but he saw only conviction.

It shouldn’t have mattered to him so much. That was what bothered Ned the most. He should’ve been worried about Robert. Better even that he brood about Jon at the Neck, or his failures in the war, than to get involved with the Kingslayer and his sister. He could tell himself it was about the king, that if Jaime kept his vows, his affair with Cersei would be only a brief note in the scheme of things, and he could avert bloodshed.

But Ned also had some sense that whatever became of Jaime would reflect the fate that awaited himself. The world seemed a bleaker place when seen from King’s Landing, truths blurred, morality a shadow that flickered even if he kept his gaze fixed upon it constantly. Watching the Kingslayer’s tentative attempts to make sense of it, his efforts to find footing, gave Ned a queer sense of hope. The idea that the man who’d glittered atop the Iron Throne and laughed over his dead king’s body might be more than he appeared, if nothing else, felt like evidence that someone could crumble under his oaths without losing himself entirely. 

For Cersei to ruin that out of jealousy or spite irked Ned in a way he couldn’t have articulated if asked. He didn’t speak to Jaime of it, aware that he wouldn’t be believed, and that to breathe a word of her implied intention of seduction would ruin what civility they’d managed. But he gravitated toward Jaime out of an impulse to balance Cersei’s influence. He doubted his presence could have any meaningful effect, but gods help him, he didn’t want to turn away.

Ned’s first deliberate attempt at peacemaking came in a request that Jaime continue to help him train.

“Me?” Jaime said, squinting suspiciously. “I admit you desperately need it, but would Ser Barristan not suffice?”

“He is a good man, but…” Ned sought the best way to phrase what he wished to express. “He says what he is supposed to say. It is admirable, for a set amount of time.”

“You like my impertinence,” Jaime crowed, smirking. “Gods be good, not three years in the Red Keep, and already your standards are falling. Fine, we’ll train, if you talk to Selmy about making our schedules line up. I won’t mind the chance to bring you to your knees several times each morning.”

The last line pulled Ned’s mind toward shameful thoughts, and for a moment he’d only been able to stare, Jaime polishing his sword near the common room’s hearth, his face tilted so that shadow and firelight played strangely off the line of his jaw. _You are going mad,_ Ned thought, then stiffly excused himself with a promise to speak with Selmy soon as he got the chance.

The lessons themselves were strange. Jaime was caustic as ever, his advice often harsh, but he wasn’t a poor instructor. And while bickering and sharp remarks filled each session, lighter japes eventually joined them. The sole time Ned won a spar, Jaime had fallen into a mid-fight tangent about how fortunate it was that Ned's bleak face would scare away potential assassins, as his swordsmanship surely wouldn't do so. His tone had surprised Ned into laughing, and Jaime had stared for so long that Ned was able to land a finishing blow.

As their enmity cooled, shared duty grew almost pleasant as well. They weren’t supposed to talk, but Jaime was remarkably eloquent with his eyes and face if he wished, and every so often he’d shoot Ned expressions of amusement or boredom or disgust. Sometimes he would talk, even knowing Ned wouldn’t respond, miming polite conversation while Robert whored behind them, or rambling about a letter from his younger brother, occasionally speaking of an uncle who enjoyed adventuring.

And sometimes they sat in the common room and spoke of the White Book. Ned had begun to read it, starting from the beginning. Like Jaime, hoping to understand. The first time Jaime caught him, he stared without approaching. The second time, he asked Ned his reasons, bristling at receiving the honest answer, like he thought he was being mocked. When Ned convinced him that wasn’t the case, Jaime asked what he thought of those first Kingsguard. Ned answered. It became another sort of routine.

One evening after they’d stood guard together, when Boros and Mandon had relieved them, Barristan Selmy had stopped Ned outside the door to the common hall. “You have spent much time with Ser Jaime of late.”

Ned had kept his face even. “He is our sworn brother.”

“He is…” Barristan began, a ‘but’ implied by his tone. But whatever his grievance, he seemed to realize he had little cause to air it, and said nothing more.

Jon Arryn noticed too. He remarked on it after a private meal they shared together in his solar. “Of late, you seem closer to Ser Jaime than to Robert.”

The phrasing took Ned aback. “Robert is as a brother to me. You cannot deny that.”

“You haven’t forgiven him for his remark about the children?”

 _No._ “We resolved that argument after Lyanna…” The weight of the conversation threatened to choke him. “I am a Kingsguard, and Robert a king. We cannot be as we once were. Sometimes I fear the men we’d been are dead.”

Jon put a hand on Ned’s arm. “Him more than you, you mean.”

 _I meant what I said._ Did Jon not see how difficult Ned found this? How the cloak, the Red Keep, twisted and tainted him? Gods, but he was befriending a man who was sleeping with his sister, sleeping with the queen. Or who had been. Who might not be still. Ned did not know. He could never bring himself to ask.

Ned’s response was a while in coming. “He is different.”

“And Ser Jaime,” Jon said after a moment, “not unlike how Robert had used to be, I suppose. Charming and reckless, and he seems to admire you in much the same way.”

“Admire me?” Ned said.

“Of course.” Jon smiled. “Do not get me wrong, I am glad of this. I feared for you your first months here. You seemed lonely.”

“You approve,” Ned said with a frown. Still half caught on Jon’s strange remark about Jaime’s admiration. Then, had Cersei not said something similar? Yet it made so little sense.

“Ser Jaime was pardoned at my urging,” Jon said. “I admit it was more to appease Tywin than any sympathy for the boy, but I didn’t intend for him to remain a pariah for the rest of his life. If nothing else, I trust him more knowing that you see something in him that’s convinced you to move past your dislike.”

Ned deliberated on whether to say more. Jon noticed, and he waved him on. Even then, the words were difficult to get out. “It isn’t as simple as I thought it would be. Wearing this cloak. How can I judge Jaime when _I_ don’t know what to do? When I can’t say what I would’ve done in his place? I’d thought…”

Jon relieved him by nodding, and his face was grave. “I am not proud of pardoning Tywin, Ned. There are other things I have done as Hand that give me little pleasure. Do not be ashamed in doubting, or in finding solace in someone else who’s shared those doubts. Robert… whatever Robert is, Aerys was worse. I do not envy those forced to serve in his court.”

“How is… Robert?” Ned tried to ask. Jon was right that they’d been spending little time with one another. Ned wasn’t avoiding him. He stood guard for him hours each day. But they rarely interacted alone, just the two of them, and it wasn’t a change Ned quite regretted. He couldn’t look at his friend without thinking of Cersei, or neglected small council meetings, or Jon Arryn sitting the throne day after day because Robert couldn’t be bothered to hold court.

It hurt Ned’s heart to talk with him, to have Robert pretend nothing was amiss and try treating him as he once had, when he looked at his friend and saw a stranger—and one he didn’t particularly like.

Jon gave him an odd look. “You see him more than I do.”

“I’d thought he might talk to you.”

“Only when he’s had too much to drink,” Jon said heavily, “and then… it’s always the same.”

That it should’ve been Jon who took the crown. Should’ve been Ned. That he wanted Lyanna. That he was unhappy and wanted anything else. _I am not to judge him,_ Ned thought, and wished fiercely he was in Jaime’s company, so he could see writ on the other man’s face what he wouldn’t let show on his own.

“I try,” Jon told Ned.

“Perhaps you are too gentle,” Ned said, not kindly.

“He is my king,” Jon reminded him. Ned thought that wasn’t an excuse, not when he was Hand, when he _did_ have the authority to speak out. But he was tired of this conversation. He excused himself and walked briskly back to the White Sword Tower. In the yard outside, Jaime rode quintain, mounted atop a white stallion.

He rode like his horse and lance both were part of him, in a natural, thoughtless way that made Ned think of Brandon and Lyanna. As Ned watched, Jaime shifted his lance and moved his shield as he rode toward the quintain, landing a perfect strike as he blew past. He slowed his horse and removed his helm, tucking it under his arm as he guided his horse back toward Ned.

“I thought that was you,” he said, teeth flashing in his smile. “Weren’t you supping with the Hand? Have you decided to practice jousting instead?”

Robert had promised Ned he’d never have to compete in a tourney, and Ned wasn’t likely to have to wield a lance in battle. He kept his skills just sharp enough that they’d serve should he have to do so, but considered his efforts to improve his swordsmanship more worthwhile and a fulfillment enough of the martial aspects of his duty. He told Jaime, “I have no taste for jousting, but I wouldn’t mind a spar.”

Jaime stuck his lance in the dirt, tested to make sure it wouldn’t fall, then vaulted gracefully from his horse, shield still over one arm. He undid the straps, then called for a squire who’d been hovering at the edge of the yard, unnoticed until then. The boy hurried over, and Jaime said something that made him laugh—Ned couldn’t hear what—before he passed off his reins and turned to Ned. “Training twice in one day. Your dedication impresses me.”

“I’m in a poor mood. Better I swing at someone in armor.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” As he spoke, Jaime ran his fingers through sweat-soaked hair, loosening curls that’d been pressed down by his helm.

Ned replied before he could think better of it. “We spoke of Robert.”

“Ah.”

“This isn’t… He wasn’t like this. Before.” Ned remembered Lyanna’s reluctance to marry him. Her insistence that he would not change for her. _I hadn’t acknowledged he was like this, anyway._

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Jaime said after a pause. “To look at someone you’d sworn you knew well as anything, and to wonder…” He shook himself and immediately looked guilty. _Was he speaking of his sister?_

Ned dared not ask, and Jaime swiftly changed the subject to a new maneuver he wished to practice in their session, and serious talk was set aside for the time.


	3. Chapter 3

**286**

Though Ned had believed Ser Jaime when he’d said Cersei’s babe couldn’t be his, it remained a relief that the child was born with Robert’s hair and eyes. A girl. Cersei refused to name her, and Robert had no opinion. Jon Arryn finally suggested Cassana in the hope it’d make Robert notice the infant.

“She _is_ beautiful,” Robert told Ned one evening while he sat drinking in his solar. He’d called Ned in to stand with him, while Jaime remained on duty outside. “Looks like Mya _._ Wouldn’t know she came out of the Lannister woman at all.”

Ned worked his mouth. “Your mother would be proud.”

Robert snorted. “Would she, Ned?”

He’d been unable to answer.

Later, as they walked back to the tower, Jaime spoke to him in a low voice. “Cersei never wanted his children. She endured it because she thought it’d keep you quiet. But it…” Jaime’s forehead creased, and he looked like he might cry. “I was there. Standing guard when the chit was born. Cersei took one look at her face and began to weep. They think it’s because it was a girl, but that’s not it. It’s because Robert invaded this too. She has nothing left.”

Ned gave the only response he could manage. “I cannot fix it.”

Jaime laughed darkly. “You do not think it’s justice? That it’s proper she did her duty?”

The assumption almost hurt, in a queer way. Ned rubbed his eyes. “I take no satisfaction in the pain of others. If it was Lyanna…” He caught Jaime’s gaze, and something in his expression prompted honesty. “When I found my sister, she was hurt. Trapped. Dying. Perhaps it’s different, but…” _She caused so much trouble running away, but I’d loathe any man who claimed she deserved it._ He couldn’t be so plain, and let the sentence trail off.

Jaime allowed the silence to stand, though he looked over often. Outside the White Sword Tower, he stepped in front of Ned to bar him from entering. The moon was full, and it dyed his hair silver, put strange shadows into his eyes and across the sculpted lines of his face.

Stopping abruptly, Ned found his breath had left him. It took a moment to recover. “Is something amiss?”

“You begin to unnerve me,” Jaime said lightly. “I thought at first you intended to keep a close eye on me, to scold and frown if you discovered I was still meeting Cersei. But it’s been months, and you haven’t so much as asked if I’ve touched her. What is it, then? Why play at kindness for so long?” Jaime laughed a little too loudly. “I’m beginning to get the wrong impression.”

“Wrong impression?” All Ned could think was that Jaime had guessed at the dreams, had glimpsed some indication that Ned’s eyes liked to follow him more than another man’s should. He half expected a punch to the teeth.

Jaime only turned away. “You’re acting like you can tolerate me. As if Eddard Stark might go soft on the Kingslayer.” When Ned didn’t immediately reply, he added with a scowl, “Jon Arryn has tried asking me about your welfare. Since we’re ‘friends,’ he thinks I’d know something he doesn’t. I promise I did nothing to give him that misapprehension.”

Despite his confusion, Ned relaxed. He’d also gotten the impression that Jon assumed he and Jaime closer than the reality, but it hadn’t seemed worth dwelling on. Complicated as his own feelings were, that he’d find a confidant in such a man, Jon was hardly judging him. Why deny or downplay the matter?

But Ned hadn’t considered what Jaime would think of it. Had he done so, he would’ve assumed Jaime didn’t much care. They sparred together, but Ned was probably the best of bad options among other Kingsguard brothers. Jaime japed with him while they were on duty, but he japed with his squires and a handful of other knights, as well. They spoke of the White Book, but they each had their own reasons to be interested in those men, in the way vows could be kept and broken and interpreted in different situations.

Far as Ned had seen, Jaime didn’t show concern or interest for anyone save his siblings. Ned didn’t make a habit of assuming himself the exception to such things. But Jaime’s words, now… He recalled Cersei’s implication that Jaime had always admired honorable men. Jon Arryn’s insistence Jaime admired _him_. Jaime’s determination to act like he cared less than he did, something Ned oft attributed to Lannister pride.

Ned still hadn’t answered. He’d been staring, and Jaime curled his lip. “Has the mere idea struck you dumb?” He huffed. “I told you, it was Jon Arryn who suggested it.”

 _He fears me,_ Ned realized with bewilderment. _I could hurt him._

Ned wondered if he’d misunderstood, and he nearly expected to be met with Jaime’s cruel laughter when he finally said, “Jon Arryn knows me well.”

Instead, he had the rare pleasure of seeing Jaime Lannister rendered speechless. That pleasure curbed quickly when a flash of youthful uncertainty flickered across Jaime’s face, and Ned understood with strange, hollow shock how much his words had mattered. Discomfited by the thought, he moved toward the door. “It grows late. We should sleep.”

Jaime didn’t immediately move. Ned’s shoulder met his chest, and their armor clanked off the other’s. Softly, but the unexpected noise nearly made Ned jump. Made the contact feel far more direct than it otherwise would’ve. Jaime swallowed thickly, then stepped aside so Ned could open the door.

The common room was empty when they entered, the fireplace burned low. From behind him, Jaime blurted, “Four months. It’s been four months, since I last went to Cersei.”

He said it like a confession. Four months. That was after the two of them had first discussed it. Long after Ned had first come across the twins. But it could have been worse.

He stopped and turned, and Jaime nearly ran into him. Avoided it by half a foot, but lingered too close. Ned fought over an appropriate answer, and finally parted with one of the more generous options. “Thank you.”

“Thank… you?”

“For stopping. That secret is my dishonor, too. If complications were to arise, it would be my fault as much as yours.”

“Yet, you still say we’re…” Jaime’s face grew incredulous. “Friends.” A pointed look, like he waited for Ned to insist there’d been a misunderstanding.

The lateness of the hour pressed down on Ned, seemingly all at once. This exchange had gone on too long, was too complicated. He could only shake his head. “So I do. You have your good qualities, Lannister.” _Some days I think you’re a better man than Robert._ A thought he didn’t like. He stepped around Jaime and continued toward his sleeping cell.

Jaime didn’t move. His armor would’ve made it easy to hear if he had. But his voice found Ned partway up the staircase. “None of that ‘Lannister’ nonsense, Stark. My name is Jaime.”

After a breath, Ned nodded. “I will remember that. Jaime. You could use my name as well.”

“I could,” Jaime allowed, all amusement. A smirk in his voice. “But I too much like how _Stark_ rolls off the tongue.”

**287**

As soon as the event could be organized, Robert held a tourney to celebrate the princess’s birth. Tywin traveled east to make a show of meeting his granddaughter, but to Jaime’s outrage, he left Tyrion behind.

“He wanted to come,” Jaime told Ned the moment he found him in the round room. Ser Boros sat drinking in one corner. Jaime glared in his direction, but eventually ignored him and dropped into the chair closest to Ned. “He wrote and said so, yet my father claims he insisted on staying behind to spend time with our uncle. He’s hiding him away, pretending he isn’t his heir. I could… gods, I could strangle him.”

Ned looked up from the White Book. “I’m not going to argue. I have no love for your father.”

“I haven’t seen Tyrion since I went west to escort Cersei to King’s Landing,” Jaime went on, as if Ned’s comment was permission to continue. He paused and took in Ned, growing a touch chagrined. “It’s been longer since you’ve seen your brothers, hasn’t it?”

Ned inclined his head. “But they are far away, and visits impractical. Your father was already coming. There’s no sufficient reason he couldn’t have brought Tyrion with him.”

Jaime’s anger curbed momentarily, the corners of his mouth lifting as he caught Ned’s eye. Then he seemed to remember he was upset and fell back into his rant. “He’s embarrassed by him, you know. I can’t fathom why. Tyrion is twice as smart as I’ll ever be, and a far finer heir. And he _wants_ to be heir. I never cared a wit for getting the Rock.”

“No?” Ned said carefully, remembering Jaime glittering on the Iron Throne.

If Jaime knew where his thoughts had gone, he didn’t show it. He glanced at Blount and lowered his voice, “Do I strike you as someone who’d enjoy sitting around managing a giant bloody castle? You’ve seen Robert. I won’t say we’re _alike,_ but I’d do no better as a ruler than he is.”

This fit with… everything Ned knew about Jaime. _Gods, he truly did just sit to wait and see who_ _’d find him, didn’t he?_

Apparently sick of their discussion, Jaime leaned across the table, bracing his elbows across its surface so he could take a look at the White Book. His hair hung in front of Ned’s face, shoulder so close that Ned would only need to shift his head to press his cheek against the silk of his doublet. It was autumn, and Jaime smelled of sweat and dirt and fresh air.

“Ser Lorent Marbrand,” Jaime read. “The one who died in the riots during the Dance of the Dragons, yes? Perhaps we shouldn’t bother reading about the poor fools who served around that war. Each knight’s story is more depressing than the last. While I wouldn’t mind dying heroically in battle, I’d prefer doing so for a just cause. Neither side in the Dance was worth a damn.”

“People might say the same of Robert’s Rebellion,” Ned found himself saying. _If Robert continues to be so poor a king, or gods forbid gets worse._

Jaime gave a huff of laughter. “Oh gods, you might be right.” He laughed more properly. “The war that ruined us all, and in a hundred years, there’ll be two cunts reading this book and laughing at what fools we were.” He slouched into his chair and threw one leg over the edge. “At least you’ve diverted me from my father. Who’s next?”

“Marston Waters,” Ned said.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “A poor idiot who didn’t know what he was doing. Then, some days I think the same could be said of half the book.”

Ned looked over at Boros, then tilted his head toward Jaime’s and kept his voice soft. “You’re not wrong. Do you think that’s… a problem with the Kingsguard? That the oaths, the way it’s set up, encourage certain behaviors? Make acting in wiser ways more difficult?

Twin green eyes met his, and Jaime’s amusement died. The look on his face, something between awe and disbelief, made Ned too aware of their proximity. He moved away slowly, drawing in a long breath. _Stop,_ he told himself. _This is madness. It is perverse._

“Yes,” Jaime said after a moment. “But…”

 _There’s nothing we can do,_ Ned filled in to himself. The depth of feeling in Jaime’s manner tugged at him, wound with Jaime’s displeasure with his father, and his dismissiveness at the notion of being heir to Casterly Rock, let alone king of the Seven Kingdoms. For the first time, he wondered _why_ Jaime had killed Aerys.

For the first time, he couldn’t imagine it was for Tywin’s ends.

Ned might’ve asked if he hadn’t already told Jaime it no longer mattered. Better not to go back on that. To make an issue of something they’d put behind them. But the thought made him stare far too obviously.

Jaime cleared his throat. “We’re on duty tonight. For the feast. That must start soon.”

He stood and walked away without waiting for Ned’s response.

Ned guarded Robert the first day of the tourney, his eyes largely on the crowds and the those closest in proximity to the king, only absently watching the lists. But his gaze drew upward, despite himself, when Jaime rode out to compete in the joust.

Cersei made a noise like a hiss.

In the first two tourneys after the Sack of King’s Landing, Jaime had worn golden armor. Today, he wore white.

Ned resolutely didn’t look at Cersei, though her eyes burned into his face. He wanted to find Tywin in the crowd, but refrained from doing so. He wanted to smile, too, and repressed the urge by the skin of his teeth.

Jaime won each of his tilts that day, and at the feast that evening, when Ned was off duty and eating next to Jon Arryn, Jaime in his whites and guarding Robert, Jaime caught his eye and arched a brow. Ned could almost hear his voice. _“Did my armor please your honor, Stark? Pretty soon, men will say I’m the humbler of us two.”_

This time, Ned did smile. The kind of grin he’d used to give Robert, that he’d forgotten how to form after receiving the message his father had been murdered. Jaime looked surprised, his manner growing almost uncertain as he swiftly returned his attention to his surroundings.

Stannis sat to Ned’s left, dragged into attendance by Robert. He made one of his disapproving noises. “I had heard you were friendly with the Kingslayer.”

Ned’s smile fell, though he wasn’t surprised. Stannis’s judgment was reasonable. If the situation had been reversed, and Stannis, or someone else of solid morals, had befriended Ser Jaime, Ned didn’t doubt he would’ve found it suspect.

“So I am,” Ned said in his most civil tone. Part of him wondered if Stannis wasn’t right to judge. If Ned hadn’t grown too close to the situation, and blind because of it.

Stannis appeared ready to chase an argument, but Jon Arryn cut in, “We celebrate the birth of a healthy princess. Is this proper conversation?”

“A healthy prince would have been more worth celebrating,” Stannis said.

Ned reached for his wine and took a long drink. Caught Jaime looking at him again. Regal in white armor, his hair lit through by waning sunlight, mouth quirked into a blithe smirk.

He downed the wine too quickly and cursed the heat that threatened to build in his face. It was enough to unnerve him. In the past, if he’d ever noticed Robert in a manner that was less than appropriate, his observations had been subtle and fleeting. Easy to push away.

He found that difficult with Jaime. Because of his celibacy oaths, he could tell himself. Perhaps it was even true to an extent. But he suspected it was something about the man himself that’d gotten under his skin, and wondered what that said about him. It wasn’t often anyone spoke of or acknowledged men desiring other men. He’d heard certain soldiers of his, overcome by battle lust, speak of raping prisoners. He’d heard talk of other soldiers sharing pavilions or blankets if camp followers were in short supply, or they didn’t wish to risk a pox.

This was different. Too like what he’d felt when he watched Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal. He feared it disrespectful or insulting, and withered to consider that Jaime believed him the height of honor, while Ned’s thoughts of him would occasionally be more appropriate directed at beautiful lady. Or worse, a boy whore.

Frustrated with himself, Ned tamped down any improper thoughts. A glance upward told him Ser Jaime had turned back to him and was looking pointedly toward Stannis, clearly assuming him the cause of any noticeable odd behavior.

Ned gave him a warning glare, aware Stannis would take offense if he noticed the silent exchange. Jaime rolled his eyes and made a show of looking elsewhere.

Doing his best to engage Stannis and Jon in conversation, Ned didn’t look at Jaime for the rest of the meal.

The next day, Jaime won the final of the jousts. Instead of giving the crown of flowers to Cersei, he approached the nursemaid holding Princess Cassana and extended the lance to the woman, saying aloud, “For my most beautiful niece.”

Ned hadn’t seen him look twice at the girl, knew he didn’t particularly care for her. Which meant… he was snubbing Cersei? _I’d never told him he needed to go so far._ But when Ned looked between the twins, something in the twist of Cersei’s dark smile, and the cold satisfaction in Jaime’s eyes as he spun his horse from her, gave Ned the feeling that it was more complicated than that.

The nursemaid put the crown on the princess’s head, and Jaime tipped his head to her and blew his niece a kiss. For the first time at the tourney, the crowd cheered for Jaime Lannister and seemed to mean it.

He competed in the melee as well, placing third in a field of fifty. On a whim, Ned—off duty, this day—sought Jaime in his pavilion after, and nearly ran back out when he found him undressed save for his smallclothes, a young maester examining a bruise on his calf. His ribs were already wound in bandages.

They’d shared a bathhouse often enough that it wasn’t anything Ned hadn’t seen before. But in the bathhouse, he had the excuse of focusing on washing, of it being polite and expected not to look at anyone else too closely. Now Jaime had lifted his head to grin at him. “Come to congratulate me, Stark?” He swatted at the maester. “Stop poking at that. I’ve said it’s fine. Only a bruise. If you’ve got some of that salve to make the swelling go down, I know Pycelle has given me some—” The man reached into a satchel and pulled out a jar. “Good. Give it to Stark, then leave us.”

 _Give it to_ _…_ Ned took the jar dumbly.

“I can’t bend. Thoros got me too hard in the ribs.” Jaime reclined on his wooden chair. “So? You liked the armor? I’ve seen you glare when I wore my gold.”

“You enjoy making me glare,” Ned said flatly. He moved closer. For lack of better option, he knelt by Jaime’s feet.

“Only sometimes. When you actually judge me, I want to punch you in the face.” Jaime didn’t give him the chance to respond. “In any case, I pray I made a sufficient point to my father. Cersei noticed, to be sure.” His face darkened. “She lectured me about it, acted as if I’m too stupid to know what I’m doing. What am I supposed to make of that?”

“I have little kind to say of your sister. You do not want my input.”

While Jaime chewed over that, Ned opened the jar and set the lid aside. It’d be strange to hesitate, he told himself. He scooped a small amount of the salve onto the tips of his fingers and rubbed it across the darkening bruise that spanned the larger part of Jaime’s calf. Doing so should’ve been in no way appealing. He was close to Jaime’s feet, after the man had spent a full day sweating in plate. But his skin was warm and damp with sweat, and Ned’s head level with his lap. Heat coiled low in his belly.

“You don’t like her,” Jaime said eventually. “That baffles me. You can put up with me, and I’ve killed a king.”

“You care,” Ned said, focusing on the bruise. “You try. She scorns you for wanting to.” He was done, the salve rubbed in. Yet, his fingers returned to the jar and retrieved more salve like there hadn’t been enough the first time, and he reached for Jaime’s calf again. _Fool, fool, fool_.

Ned took a shallow breath and glanced upward, striving to keep his voice even. “Is it not telling that you attempted to act as better befits a knight of the Kingsguard, just now, and she scolded you for it? To what end? To whose benefit, save hers?”

Jaime peered down at him curiously. “Is that defensiveness in your voice?”

A rough laugh escaped him. “We’ve established we are friends. Is that not part of it?”

Jaime didn’t immediately respond. Ned fixed his eyes on Jaime’s calf, the skin already dark and swollen where he touched, though the fine golden hair was almost soft as he passed his fingers over it. This time, when the salve was gone, Ned replaced the jar’s lid and forced himself to stand.

He only looked at Jaime’s face after he’d returned the jar to the maester’s satchel. His heart dropped when he realized Jaime was staring at him. He cleared his throat. “Is something amiss?”

Jaime’s laugh sounded uneasy. “Of course not. I only…”

“I know she is your sister,” Ned said after a moment, telling himself it must be the talk of the queen that’d put Jaime off kilter. He would not entertain the other possibility. Quietly he added, “All the same, I will not lie about what she is like.”

“Ah. Right. Cersei.” Jaime rubbed his eyes, and his strange manner eased. “Speak of her as you will. You aren’t wrong.” It clearly pained him to say so. “We’ve been fighting more often of late. I keep thinking it must be a phase, that she’ll see sense, and we cannot be forever at odds. But it’s been months, and she won’t bend.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Ned said, mostly for Jaime’s sake.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be,” Jaime said dryly. “She despises you. I’m sure you’re only still in one piece because she lacks a way to kill you subtly, and she can’t do anything less extreme without risking you’ll go to Robert about us.”

“I couldn’t do so without seeing your head lost,” Ned said in surprise.

Jaime’s seriousness ebbed, and he gave Ned a sparkling grin. “And you’d find that a tragedy, would you?”

Ned had to turn away. “Since you’re mostly unharmed, I’m afraid I should go. I’m to guard Robert tonight.”

“And _I_ shall return to the Red Keep early and sleep,” Jaime boasted. “You have a fun evening, Stark.”

Ned made a show of grumbling, but he paused in the doorway to look back into the pavilion. Jaime already turning away to retrieve his clothing. He gave himself a second to stare, watching the play of muscle across his back, and the shimmer of sweat on fair skin.

Only a second. Then he left, so full of jumbled emotions he feared he might be sick from it.

Princess Cassana captured Ned’s heart swiftly and completely. It might’ve been that she looked like Robert, and made Ned think of his friend as he’d been before sitting the throne. Or possibly it was that Cersei loathed the girl, and feeling some pity for a child who was hated by her mother, he offered her more affection than he otherwise would’ve. He also suspected Jon had something to do with it, his nephew at Greywater Watch. Out of reach, if safe.

 _She is nearly a niece to me, how close I was with Robert, once,_ Ned thought sometimes when he stood guard over her. In his free time, Ned had permission to visit her, and he’d hold the princess or tell her stories or whisper kind things in her ear, as if that could offset the poison she’d endure growing up in the Red Keep. 

Jaime sometimes stood guard alongside him. Sometimes, he followed Ned if he stopped by the nursery after sparring or a meal, and hovered expressionlessly in the doorway as he watched.

“She’s your niece,” Ned told him finally, Cassana cradled in his arms while the nursemaid watched them both. "You could be warmer toward her."

“She looks like Robert,” Jaime said in a sour voice.

Ned narrowed his eyes and said in a low murmur, “You’re jealous, you mean.”

“If I am?” he snapped, though at least he remembered to keep quiet. “I love Cersei, whatever you think about it. How would you feel if whoever you loved got with someone else’s child, when she didn’t even want…”

The point was a fair one, and Ned sighed as he looked at the girl in his arms. “It isn’t her fault.” This received no response. Foolishly, he looked up and said, “You love your sister still, in that way?”

“I can’t just stop, however vile you think it is,” Jaime hissed.

 _Why are you always like this?_ “I only meant that you two hardly talk anymore,” Ned said. “I do not see what you have in common any longer, and she treats you like you’re a fool. Whatever the other problems, it hurts you much as anything.”

Jaime shut his mouth.

Ned moved further into the nursery, more irritated than he should have been. It wasn’t as if a Kingsguard was obligated to care for the princess. Jaime was probably more in the right than Ned, keeping appropriate distance. But Ned’s irritation had mounted disproportionately, and suddenly he couldn’t look at the man.

“Leave us,” he said, when Jaime still did not speak. “I will remain with Princess Cassana a while longer.”

“Bugger you too, Stark,” Jaime muttered, and tore away.

The nursemaid regarded Ned with lifted brows. “Forgive us,” he told the woman, rocking the miraculously still sleeping princess in his arms. “That was unseemly.” She wouldn’t have heard anything, but it’d been plain they’d been arguing.

“Nothing to forgive, m’lord,” she said, bowing her head.

Ned tried to remain a while longer, but his agitation refused to lessen. Within minutes, he returned Cassana to her crib and bid the nursemaid farewell, offering an excuse about needing air.

Ned stalked the castle’s yards until the moon had risen high. When he returned to the White Sword Tower, he found Jaime sulking within, paging through the White Book, the glow of a lamp lighting his face. He looked up at Ned’s entrance and immediately scowled. “I know you didn’t stay with the chit that long. Have you got your own lover tucked away somewhere?”

“Jaime,” Ned said tiredly.

Jaime’s scowl deepened. “Is it Robert? All men know you’ve always been close.”

The words brought Ned to stillness. Four years had accustomed him to Jaime Lannister, and it wasn’t often the man’s comments left him without a reply, but Ned had no response for the unexpected attack. Worse yet, surprise stole control of his features, and he felt his shock show plain as a child’s.

Jaime brought a hand over his face. “That was unworthy.”

Ned realized the comment had been happenstance. Not pointed. Not implying anything. He rediscovered his voice. “I was only walking.”

“Of course. Forgive me.” Jaime closed the White Book, then moved closer to Ned. A glance over his shoulder, then he spoke in a quiet voice. “I’ve loved Cersei since I can remember. I don’t know how not to. We’ve always said we were two parts of the same person. She told you that.”

“I remember.”

“It feels wrong to keep away from her. Like I wake each morning and… and walk on the ceiling instead of the floor, or something equally as impossible. Then I have to do it again and again. I don’t even know if I _am_ jealous about the princess. It only seems like I should be.”

The explanation was heartfelt and clearly cost him something, but it only brought back the strange, unpleasant feeling that Ned had spent the evening trying to escape. He tried to sound indifferent. “Why are you telling me this?”

“So you understand,” Jaime said like it should’ve been obvious. “I can’t merely turn it off, no matter how bothersome you find it.”

The comment baffled Ned. “I’ve never faulted you for loving her. Only for acting on it.”

Jaime flinched. “I think that’s the first time you’ve lied to my face. I’m not blind. You should’ve seen the look you gave me when you muttered about my jealousy. I might well have killed another king.”

Ned forced a trembling breath. Beginning to understand. “It wasn't... I was upset about another matter. Not that. I swear it.” _I don’t find your love for your sister bothersome,_ he wanted to say, but that would be a lie. He settled on, “I don’t think worse of you for wanting her. That isn’t something you can help.”

“Ah.” Jaime rubbed the back of his head. “Must I apologize twice in one evening?”

“It was my fault,” Ned said. “Do not worry over it.”

Though the air had lightened between them, Ned bid Jaime a goodnight and retreated to his bedchamber. Needing solitude to come to terms with the prospect of envying Cersei Lannister her brother’s devotion.

**288**

As spring gave way to summer, Ned’s friendship with Jaime Lannister ceased to become something he marveled at or thought about. Barristan Selmy didn’t comment on it again, nor did Jon Arryn. But one evening while he and Ned sat together in his rooms, the king introduced the topic.

“You actually like the golden fucker, don’t you?” he asked. “Jon’s said as much, but I didn’t believe it. I remember how you scowled at me for giving him a pardon. What the hells happened?”

“I thought he killed Aerys out of malice,” Ned said after a moment. “Or that he did it for his father. I no longer believe it was so simple. He was young. Perhaps he… simply broke.”

Robert drained the last of his wine, then poured himself more. He’d sent the servants away, and the two of them were alone. “He’s still a smarmy cunt.”

This wasn’t untrue, but Ned couldn’t verbally agree, too aware that Jaime would hate it if he did. Jaime wouldn’t mind that Robert had said it. Would care, though, if Ned showed amusement. Ned found himself drinking the rest of his wine.

“Damn you, Ned,” Robert said. “That was a joke. Friends with the Kingslayer? How long has this been going on? A man should know when he’s been replaced.” He boomed a laugh, but Ned saw that this was the heart of their exchange. Ned was to share in the laughter, to reassure him and chastise the absurdity of the remark.

It was true that he wasn’t as close to Ser Jaime now as he’d been to Robert as a boy. But Ned wasn’t as close to Robert as he’d been then, either. Even occasions like this, sitting and talking, gave him only strained pleasure. He saw that Robert was lonely and needed someone to speak to, and loved him enough that he withheld titles and courtesies for these encounters, so the king could pretend they were the young men they’d used to be. But all the trying in the world didn’t make the pretense true, and Ned couldn’t forget that outside these walls, his honor was bound to Robert’s—and Robert made a fine show of grinding it to dirt.

“They’re two different sorts of friendship,” Ned said after too long a pause. “You and I were boys together. We share memories I don’t with him. But Ser Jaime and I are sworn brothers now. That isn’t without meaning.”

Robert looked gratified, but he grumbled, “You’re sworn brothers with five other men as well.”

“Ser Barristan is old,” Ned said, “and the others…” _I would not question Your Grace_ _’s judgment,_ he wanted to say, but knew the distance would only hurt Robert. “They are not the sort of men with whom I’d wish to be friendly.”

Robert scoffed at that, but he soon abandoned his questions about Jaime in favor of discussing memories of their time at the Vale, even of the war. Ned found it painful and began drinking to avoid the need to respond.

“Do you remember, Ned?” Robert asked after recollecting one particular incident, red-faced and laughing. “Gods, those were the days. Before I had my wife, and you that cloak. There are times I think you and I should leave this place behind, go across the Narrow Sea, and leave Jon to rule. We could be sellswords.”

“Robert…”

Like he thought it humorous, Robert added, “Bring Lannister if you must. He looks like a woman, but by the gods, he can fight.”

Ned’s head was light with wine. “He doesn’t look like a woman,” he said with a drunk’s stubbornness. He could remember glimpses in the bathhouse, that day at the tourney after Cassana was born, kneeling in front of him. However fine his features, however his golden curls shimmered, there was nothing feminine about the Kingslayer’s muscled form.

Robert looked put out by Ned’s comment. Determinedly, he said, “But we’d been talking about that tourney at Runestone, you remember the one. We went to that whorehouse together, though you were stubborn as a mule about it. Never did take a woman. An old man at six and ten.”

Ned’s head spun, and he was still thinking of Ser Jaime in the bathhouse. He set his wine cup aside, and though he’d tried to leave before, he made himself stand this time. “I guard the princess in the morning. I must go.”

Robert protested, but he was in his cups worse than Ned, and by virtue of simply walking away from his bellowing, Ned found himself freed. He passed Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon as he left and hoped they’d been unable to hear anything through the closed door.

The trip back to the White Sword Tower passed in a blur, and when Ned stumbled within, he lost count of how many flights of stairs he’d climbed, and opened the first door that looked promising. He managed to get his boots off, then crawled into bed, fumbling through the dark. Only after he’d lain down did he feel the warm body next to him. Ned wasn’t so drunk not to realize his mistake, and he fell still.

“What the—” Jaime’s voice. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Boros. “ _Stark._ _”_

Ned turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I thought this was my bed.”

“Wait, are you drunk?” Jaime leaned over him, and he put his face just above Ned’s. Smelling his breath. “You smell like wine.”

He was so close that if Ned leaned up, he could… _Stop._ “Robert,” he said. He tried to be careful with his words. “He wanted to talk. I’m fine. Coherent. Mostly.”

“Right.” Jaime sat up, and his blanket pooled around his waist, his upper body bare. “Your bed is one floor up. Off you go.”

Ned turned his head and studied him. He was beautiful. He’d always been beautiful, even sitting on the Iron Throne with a bloody sword in his lap. Beautiful and dangerous, and Ned didn’t want to go to his bed, one floor up. He wanted to stay here. He wanted to close the distance between them.

He _wanted,_ and he didn’t understand. A man, the Kingslayer, a Lannister. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his breath out all at once, feeling too present in his own body. His skin hot and tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

“Stark,” Jaime said.

Ned forced his eyes open, scrabbling for control. _Up. Get up._

“Or stay if you like,” Jaime finally said. “I don’t care, but I want to sleep.”

A bad idea.

Ned lay down, and he closed his eyes.

When he woke the next morning, Jaime was gone. Embarrassment carved a pit into Ned’s stomach, and shame joined it when he noted the height of the sun. _I_ _’m late._

He fumbled to dress, drank down a cup of water. His mouth was dry even after, and his head ached. He got into his own armor as best he could, unwilling to go looking for his squire, who—thank the gods—seemed not to have found him in Jaime’s room. Then he half-jogged, half-walked to the nursery, praying he didn’t look as much of a mess as he felt.

He found Jaime within, in full armor, the two-year-old princess on one knee as he sang to her. The nursemaid watched him with poorly concealed infatuation.

Ned drew slowly to a stop.

Jaime stood, releasing Cassana as he did. The girl called Ned’s name and walked clumsily to him, arms held out. Dumbly, he picked her up.

“Have you already looked into that matter we discussed?” Jaime asked. “I warned Sara I’d volunteered to take half of your watch this morning, so you could see to other duties. I’m shocked you managed so quickly.”

Ned responded only a beat late. “You weren’t keeping watch. You were… holding her, and singing.”

Jaime shrugged. “I figured if I was taking over your post, I might as well act the part. I’m sure I’ve caught you fawning over her while you’re supposed to be on duty.”

He’d grown less cool toward the princess since he and Ned had first discussed it, but seeking her out, singing for her, was something else altogether. Ned wasn’t sure what to say.

“Ned sick?” Cassana asked, patting him on the cheek. He winced when he realized he was flushed.

By the tone of his laughter, Ned could tell that Jaime dismissed any strangeness as lingering effects of his evening with Robert.

“I bet he only has a headache,” Jaime told the girl lightly. “Perhaps a walk in the bright gardens will cheer him up. You can sing him the songs I taught you, in your loudest, prettiest voice.”

“Yes, yes,” Cassana said. “I want walk.” She looked at her nursemaid, who nodded her permission.

Jaime brought his face close to Ned’s and gave him a horrible, wonderful smile. “Next time you think to wake me in the middle of the night, remember that a Lannister always pays his debts.” He patted Ned’s cheek. “Have a pleasant morning.”

It was the first time Ned’s warped, odd feelings hit him so strongly he feared them a genuine cause for alarm. 


	4. Chapter 4

**289**

Jaime fought like a demon when they stormed Pyke, his golden sword alive in his hands. They were meant to keep Robert from harm, but whenever the battle slowed enough to let Ned search for the other white cloak, Jaime seemed to be orbiting _him_ instead. Moving toward him if the press of men drew too close, sword licking over to help whenever an ironman drifted too close.

They stayed close to Robert in the aftermath of the battle, standing guard as he treated with Balon Greyjoy, then bestowed knighthoods. Brandon had brought northmen to join the assault, and he lingered nearby, fierce and strong in a way he hadn’t seemed when they last parted. Ned noticed his brother’s eyes on him, his expression far too intent, and realized his attention had been drifting too often toward Jaime. He made a point of focusing on the king after that.

They all remained on Pyke for the night, and evening found Ned on a wallwalk overlooking the harsh sea, too restless for sleep. Jaime came across him watching the dark, crashing waves, and wordlessly took up the space to his side.

Remembering the day’s battle, Ned said, “It isn’t your duty to protect me.

“Robert was fine,” Jaime said with a shrug. “And I wasn’t protecting you. I was covering a sworn brother’s weak spots.” The corners of his mouth pulled upward as he said it, and Ned snorted a laugh. His laughter died when Jaime leaned his elbows on the palisade and said, “I’m not made for these bloody celibacy oaths, Stark. There’s something about a good fight, and it’s been… gods, over a year. At least. I can’t _remember._ How do you bear it?”

For a moment, Ned couldn’t speak. He’d been careful around Jaime since that day in the nursery. Measuring his words, keeping aware of how close they stood, of how long he looked at him. None of it did anything to influence how Ned felt, but it gave himself an illusion of control. To ensure, at the very least, Jaime wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

Now they were having this conversation.

Taking care not to look away from the water, Ned said, “I am disciplined. That’s all.”

“You need discipline, then?” Jaime’s voice was enviably indifferent. “I’d wondered. I don’t think I’ve seen you look twice at a woman.”

The implied assumption that Ned had no desire for sex prompted a cool response. “Perhaps I’m mooning over His Grace. You’ve implied more than once that I do.”

“ _Do_ you?” Jaime asked, suddenly serious.

Ned forced himself to turn and look at him. “I’m not…” _A sword-swallower,_ he might’ve said, or any of a dozen of other names that meant the same thing. Instead, he said, “I do not.” It felt important to add, “Sometimes I wonder you don’t think me carved from ice. If you haven’t seen me stare at women, it’s because I take care to be subtle.”

It was Jaime’s turn to look away. “You needn’t be prickly. I only can’t imagine you struggling with such things. You make proper behavior seem so easy.”

“Seem,” Ned stressed. “It isn’t.”

Jaime frowned, but fell silent as he gazed at the stars and the sea. Studying his profile from the corner of his eye, Ned mulled over Jaime’s thinly veiled insinuation that the battle had left him fighting desire. Robert had been like that, oft speaking of the importance of following a good fight with a good fuck. It wouldn’t be amiss for Ned to suggest helping Jaime with the problem. Men did that sometimes, if no women were around. He could almost taste the words.

He said nothing of it. Even if Jaime was desperate enough to agree, Ned didn’t want a rough tumble where Jaime would probably turn out the lights and imagine his sister.

The thought coaxed Ned into breaking the silence. “Have you ever wanted anyone save the queen?"

Jaime opened his mouth, then seemed to rethink his reply and shut it again, visibly uneasy. Finally he said, “More often than I’d let myself recognize, I think. I’ve begun to suspect I held other infatuations and simply didn’t view them as such. Though that makes rubbish of the speech Cersei and I gave you about needing one another.”

Ned breathed in deeply. “I thought it rubbish anyway.”

Jaime didn’t laugh, but he didn’t look offended either. Rather, he appeared to be fighting with himself over something. Whatever it was, he chose to hold tongue, and silence fell over them until Ned’s eyelids grew heavy, and he admitted he’d fall asleep on his feet if they lingered longer.

The next morning, Ned met Brandon at Pyke’s harbor. His brother wished to return immediately North, and Ned felt some obligation to share a proper farewell. It was awkward. They’d been long apart, didn’t know one another well. Their initial conversation was too formal. Stilted. Brandon speaking of Lady Catelyn and their children, Ned of Robert and Jon Arryn.

Then Brandon’s manner changed, something dark coming into his eyes. With false indifference, he asked, “What of the Kingslayer? It seems you've been quick to forgive him.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Ned warned.

“Ned, he stood there, when our father—”

“He was six and ten,” Ned growled, “and all he could’ve done was die with him.”

“He killed Aerys. The king was mine. He was—”

“It wasn’t Jaime's recklessness that got you put in that cell. It wasn’t _his_ recklessness that killed our…” Ned stopped himself.

Brandon knew what he’d meant, and he barked mocking laughter. “Defending his honor, Ned? I’m not surprised. You look at him like you did Ashara. I suppose when you swear off women, a pretty man might begin to seem appealing. A hole is a hole.”

The blood drained from Ned’s face. “You are mistaken.”

“I don’t think I am. Do you want me to get this dance for you, too?”

Ned’s fingers twitched, wanting to make fists. “I’d best find Robert. Give my regards to Lady Catelyn.”

“Sure, Ned. You give mine to Lady Jaime.”

Jaime found him in his cabin later, after their ship had set sail. “Stark, I ran into your brother before we departed.” He hovered in the doorway, bafflement all over his face. “How the devils did he break his nose _after_ the battle?” 

“I couldn’t say.” Ned had been laying with his eyes closed, hoping to sleep. Hoping his throbbing hand would hurt less when he woke.

He tried to hide the hand from Jaime now, but moving it only drew the other man’s eye. Jaime crossed the small space to snatch Ned’s wrist. “Did you punch him?”

Ned reclaimed his hand. “He laughed about it after. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“It wasn’t… about me, by any chance?” Ned’s eyes snapped to him, and Jaime elaborated, “He looked at me oddly. That’s all.”

Like it was a joke, Ned said, “He insulted your honor.”

He misjudged his tone, and the truth in the words rang too clearly.

The befuddled gratitude that came into Jaime’s eyes was almost painful to endure.

Tywin held a tourney to celebrate their victory, and Robert and most his men remained at Casterly Rock as the preparations were made

The stay proved trying. Ned couldn’t glance anywhere near Tywin without somehow catching the man’s attention, and each time he did, the Lord of the Rock would meet his gaze and look at him with cold disdain. Kevan Lannister, who rumor claimed couldn’t produce a thought Tywin hadn’t had first, liked Ned no better. Ned didn’t doubt his vocal disapproval of Tywin’s actions during the Sack was part of it, but he suspected they noted some change in Jaime, too, and blamed him for it.

The rest of the Lannisters showed little interest in Ned, and Ned remained ambivalent enough toward them that he made no effort to bridge the gap. He did watch Jaime interact with the handful he seemed to like best. Jesting and goading his younger brother, growing boyishly irksome around the youngest of his uncles, letting his aunt dote on him when he thought no one was looking. Accepting brief tugs to the ear, kissing her cheek whenever she requested he do so.

Such behavior didn’t seem as shocking as it might’ve once, though those glimpses still surprised Ned—and caught his attention far more than they should’ve. In quiet moments, he’d find himself reflecting on Jaime’s easy laughter, his small displays of love or affection. Not analyzing them or questioning, but holding them in his head for the pleasure of it.

By time the tourney began, the Rock had begun to feel stifling, and Ned longed to return to King’s Landing and normalcy and routine. Even Jaime’s delight at being reunited with his family had waned, and he began finding Ned more often, showing exasperation at his aunt—who thought him turning his back too much on his house—or his uncle—who Jaime insisted teased him about _unacceptable nonsense._

“They don’t understand you, either,” Jaime added, snooping idly through a handful of items atop Ned’s luggage while Ned finished getting his boots on, the two of them getting ready to head to the tourney grounds. “They think you a horrible cold block who cares for nothing but honor.”

Ned smiled. “You disagree?”

Jaime regarded him with an undecipherable frown. “Of course. I don’t know you care much about honor in the scheme of things. You’re more worried about being good.” He paused. “No, no. You don’t even worry about it. You simply are.”

“Ser,” Ned got out, falling back on formality to hide his unease. He adjusted his second boot to have an excuse to look away.

Jaime laughed with delight. “Are you blushing? That’s almost charming.”

“We’re going to be late,” Ned said, standing and clinging to his dignity. He should have left it there, but he’d been thinking of Jaime too often. As if pressure had built up and needed any small release, he added, “Unless you’d like to continue rifling through my things? If you seek a favor to wear for the joust, you need only ask.”

Jaime paused with his fingers in Ned’s luggage, but he must’ve decided Ned meant nothing by it, for he turned with a smile. “No need, Stark,” he said, all bold charm. He held up one of Ned’s cloak clasps, plain silver but shaped like a direwolf. “I found one that’ll do nicely.”

“You can’t wear that,” Ned hissed. “Men will notice.”

“I won’t fasten my cloak with it.” Jaime pinned it instead on the inside of his cloak, so that it faced toward him. “There, you see? Perhaps it’ll give me luck.”

Ned felt his flush deepen, but he made himself shake his head as he used to at Robert, like this was merely a foolish, ill-advised whim, but one he could endure in good spirits. Taking care to sound only exasperated, he said, “You’re half mad.”

Jaime’s smile was strange. “Oddly enough, I fear you might be right.”

Ned sat near Robert to watch the jousts. The competition wasn’t as large as some, consisting mostly of knights from the area and those nearby for the war , and the event lasted only the day. Jaime performed as Ned had grown used to seeing, skilled and elegant, yet undeniably brutal. He didn’t think he’d ever enjoy watching tourneys, but it wasn’t… not-enjoyable, either, seeing him do well.

As the final joust began, Cassana detached herself from her nursemaid and crawled into Ned’s lap. “That’s uncle?” she asked, pointing to where Jaime prepared for his first tilt against Jorah Mormont.

“Yes,” Ned told her. “If he wins, perhaps he’ll give you a crown.”

“Like fa’ers?” she asked, glancing at Robert. Cersei watched on with poorly concealed disapproval.

The war had put Robert in a good mood, and he smiled at his daughter. “Yours would be prettier, little peach.”

Ned had spoken rashly in mentioning a crown at all, assuming Jaime would have little difficulty against Jorah. But Ser Jorah seemed to be in the midst of a fit of luck, remaining horsed through several tilts despite being a visibly poorer rider. Ned feared he’d set the princess up for disappointment, though Cassana showed no such worry, leaning forward and clapping her hands after every broken lance.

After the tenth time this occurred, Robert gave a grumble, looked at his daughter for a long moment, then stood and announced Jaime Lannister as the winner.

Jaime tossed his helm to a waiting squire, then guided his stallion up and down in front of the stands before drawing it to a stop near where Ned sat. Crown looped around the end of his lance, he extended it out toward his niece. Toward Ned.

“For the Princess Cassana,” Jaime said gallantly—but he caught Ned’s eye and grinned, far too amused as Ned set down the princess and stood so he could reach for the crown, the king’s seats far enough back that he only barely managed to loop it with his fingertips. Jaime added in a pleasant voice, “Or you might keep it, if it please you, Stark. Would you sooner be the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“Enough of your japes, Lannister,” Robert grumbled, and Jaime tipped his head and rode off, while Cersei looked on venomously. Cassana tugged Ned’s arm and said, “It’s _mine_. You said _mine_.”

“And you shall have it, if you ask for it as a princess ought.” Ned looked at her sternly. “Say, ‘Please, may I have the crown?’”

“Come on, Ned. The girl’s got spirit. You might indulge—” Robert silenced himself at the look Ned shot him, and Cassana asked politely for her prize.

As Ned placed the ring of flowers on her head, he fought a flicker of unease. The gibe about a favor was his own fault, but Jaime had played along. Now that remark, when he passed over the crown… Had Jaime suspected? Was he building off Ned’s jape, or had his latest grin been because he’d made Ned into the joke?

Later that evening, Ned went to Jaime’s rooms on the pretext of getting his clasp back. Jaime initially frowned upon seeing him, but after Ned gave the reason for his presence, he offered a lazy grin. “You’ll have to get another. I won’t trade in a favor that helped me win.” His grin flickered into a scowl. “Even if it was an awful showing. I should’ve had that thrice damned Mormont in the dirt on the first pass.”

Ned didn’t let himself relax. “You needn’t have joked about the crown.”

Jaime said delicately, “Why ever not? Did I hurt your feelings, that I didn’t give it to you in truth?”

More mockery, but no trace of scorn or disgust. _He does not know. That is good._

Jaime added, “Or did Robert get jealous? Has he barred you from his bed?”

This was familiar, but Ned was too off-balance to deal with it. “If you won’t return my clasp, I’ll be going.”

The edge faded from Jaime’s smile. In an almost brittle way, he said, “I didn’t mean anything by taking the clasp, or by the crown. So you know. I was only japing.”

“Yes,” Ned said, his skin prickling. “I know.”

**290**

They neared the end of the White Book early the following year, sitting together and discussing Harlan Grandison with a note of unease. Knowing what came next.

When Jaime turned to Gerold Hightower’s page, both fell silent.

“We don’t have to discuss—” Ned began.

“No,” Jaime said. “No. I want to.”

They read the text. Another spell of silence followed, until Jaime startled Ned with a barely breathed confession of how the man had chastised him for not keeping his judgment off his face when Ned’s father burned.

He gave Ned a look almost of fright, as if he expected him to be angry that Jaime had brought it up, but Ned was more perturbed to scour Hightower’s entry and find only line after line of feats and accomplishments, and nothing about everything he let happen while serving a monster.

_Slain in Honorable Combat at the Tower of Joy,_ his final line read, and Ned could have torn the parchment to pieces. _Slain keeping my sister captive. Slain killing innocent men. Killing my friends._

“I did admire him,” Jaime went on, still softly. “He gave me my white cloak. At Harrenhal.”

“I remember,” Ned said just as quietly. “You wore white scale armor. Ser Oswell helped you to your feet, and then Gerold fastened the cloak. The other four were there, all in front of the king’s pavilion.” He was half lost in memory, barely aware of what he was saying. “You were… young.” _Golden,_ he remembered thinking. It’d been winter but felt like spring, and the grass around Harrenhal had been thick and green, the air sweet with pollen. Ned had just turned eighteen, and it’d been his last breath of childhood.

_Jaime’s as well,_ Ned realized, when Jaime said bitterly, “It was all a farce. Aerys appointed me only to anger my father, and he sent me away soon as I’d gotten my cloak.” He searched the room to be sure it was empty, then added, “I only agreed to be with Cersei anyway. She’d been at court then, and she suggested I should. Very persuasively.” A dry, spiteful note in the last two words made clear what he meant. “I’d still thought it the greatest day of my life.” His hand splayed across the page. “I could have told you all of this, all these deeds, off the top of my head.”

They progressed through the next entries similarly, waiting for quiet nights and an empty common room to speak of them. Barristan came after Gerold Hightower, along with Jaime’s bitter admission of how much it’d hurt that he’d never acted like Jaime belonged. Jaime had little bad to say of Lewyn Martell, but grew spiteful upon speaking of Jonathor Darry, who’d scolded him for suggesting they might protect Rhaella from the king’s cruelty, and who’d offered further chastisement when Jaime pleaded with Rhaegar to take him to the Trident.

Next was Oswell Whent. One of the party who’d taken Lyanna in the Riverlands. Who’d killed two of Ned’s closest friends. Who’d treated Jaime _fine,_ but always as an afterthought.

Arthur Dayne was the most difficult. They discussed him in whispers over wine. Jaime recited his page word for word. After, Ned admitted that he hadn’t actually killed him, that Howland had needed to save him. He told Jaime of the other man’s horrible sadness before the battle, and of constructing the cairns after, then returning Dawn to Starfall and seeing the grief in Ashara’s eyes. 

Jaime told Ned of the campaign on which he’d been knighted, recalling the knighting itself in such startling detail it was as if he’d lived it only the day before. He described every significant interaction he and Arthur had had during two years of serving together, and finished by telling Ned, half drunk and miserable, “He never said where he was going. They left late one night… and he said he’d be back soon. That was it. Hardly a farewell at all.”

When there was nothing left to say, they walked together to their rooms. Jaime’s came first, on the second rather than third floor. Ned stopped in front of his door and sought something to say. He felt as if Jaime had given him something small and precious and was wary of handling it the wrong way for fear it might break.

All the same, Ned wanted to articulate that it mattered, _how much_ it mattered. He proved unequal to it. Lacking the words to describe a tenth of what he felt, he settled eventually on bidding Jaime a goodnight and departing in silence.

When they sparred together the next morning, Jaime eyed Ned repeatedly, as if he expected him to react adversely to their discussion the evening before. While each of the recent entries had been personal, Jaime hadn’t shown such blatant emotion at any but Arthur’s, and it clearly discomfited him.

Ned tried to act as if all was normal, but his normal with Jaime had become unacceptable as it was. The feeling of building pressure that’d prompted his foolish comment about tourney favors had grown worse, and sometimes he entertained the thought of simply blurting a confession to have it out of the way, increasingly uncertain if hiding it was worth it. 

He ended up distracted, watching Jaime’s face more than fighting. Contemplating appropriate ways to offer reassurance instead of focusing.

Jaime mistook it for something else—pity, probably—and spent the better part of the hour sending Ned’s sword skittering, if he wasn’t bashing his blade against Ned’s armor. By time they finished, Jaime was red-faced and steaming, Ned so frustrated with himself his disposition was little better. They fumed wordlessly at one another as they tore off their armor, but by time they walked toward the bathhouse, Ned had recovered the equanimity to seek civil conversation.

“It seems we’ve finished discussing the White Book,” he said.

“There are several entries left.”

“None worth reading. Last I looked, you haven’t won a tourney since your sister was wed. If Selmy cannot be bothered to update our entries, I don’t see the point in going over them.”

That chased the worst of the anger from Jaime’s face. He tugged at his hair. “I am sorry I grew so morose over the last portion of the Book. I shouldn’t have—”

Ned spoke over him. “I do not mind.”

They stepped into the bathhouse together, steam rising around them. After ascertaining that it was empty save the two of them, Jaime kept on the topic. “It’s in the past. It no longer matters.”

“Is that so?” Ned said with a note of bitterness. “Some days, I fear the past matters more to me than the present. There’s no shame in…”

“Brooding over men who died hating me, or indifferent to my existence, or… or the one who’s still alive, who wishes _I_ was dead?” Jaime asked darkly. He tore at the fastenings of the doublet he’d used as padding under his armor, and Ned had so many things in his head, he stopped what he was doing and simply watched. “My father would die from shame at a show of such weakness.”

“I would not regret it if he did.”

Jaime’s laughter took on an edge. “I invited that, didn’t I? But—” He finished with the doublet and pulled it off, then cast it aside. “I brought my suffering on myself. I know I did, agreeing to Cersei’s scheme, and it wasn’t as if _my_ father died, or my sister. You bore the whole war spectacularly.” He began speaking more quickly. “It’s a foolish thought, but I wish sometimes I might handle _something_ better than you. You’re far too composed. Far too… moral. I struggle to keep up.”

A helpless laugh choked its way from Ned. “You’ve gotten worse about that. Thinking too well of me. I have my share of sins.”

Jaime threw off the shirt he’d worn beneath his doublet, so he was bare to the waist. He wandered closer, looking Ned in the eye. “When have you ever done something truly questionable? I don’t mean like failing to report Cersei and I to Robert. That was mercy. I mean _self-serving._ Like fucking the queen, or joining a celibate order to more easily bed your sister, or…” He stopped.

“Two things?” Ned said. “Is that all you can think of? What a heavy list of misdeeds to blacken your conscience.” He didn’t mean to be dismissive, but he was irked that Jaime would disregard his own sins as not-questionable. His failure to report the twins could’ve thrown the realm to chaos, if things had progressed differently. And Jon Snow… His lie to Robert was the worst of it, but the act of sending Jon with Howland, shunting his promise to Lyanna off on a friend, bothered him nearly as badly. 

Jaime didn’t take well to Ned’s tone. “Two things that have defined me. I left out the kingslaying, but I might as well shove that in with the rest of it. Three things, all significant. My character is rooted in dishonor.”

“You’ve given up Cersei, and after what you’ve told me of late, I’m disinclined to consider Aerys a failing of your character.” Ned should have stopped there. Instead he added, far too solemnly, “I promise, it’s been years since I’ve regarded you with anything less than the highest admiration.”

Steam wound around them, the lights of the bathhouse dim. Ned drew a rattling breath and considered trying to take back the words, or to slip away, perhaps to undress and retreat to a tub to put distance between them. Jaime’s expression silenced those musings. Eyes round. His mouth partly open as if to offer a rebuttal, but only silence on his lips.

_Don’t,_ Ned told himself, but his control was gone. He grabbed Jaime by the shoulders and kissed him. For a heartbeat, he savored it. Warm lips, sweat-slick skin beneath his palms. He moved a hand to touch Jaime’s hair, fingertips brushing across his soft curls. But Jaime wasn’t moving. Of course he wasn’t moving. Heart going cold, Ned recoiled.

“Forgive me,” he said bitterly, moving another step back. Jaime had begun to shake his head. Ned struggled to sound composed. “It seems I can make self-serving, questionable decisions after all. I should—” _Flee? That will not make it better._

Ned dithered over how to fix it, and was still dithering when Jaime crashed his mouth against his. It was more teeth than lips at first, and Ned didn’t have time to properly respond before Jaime herded him against the nearest wall, shoving their bodies together as he slowed enough to truly kiss him. _This makes no sense,_ he thought, and then, _I don’t understand,_ followed by, _We shouldn’t do this here._ Ned returned the kiss regardless, fierce and hungry, sweeping his tongue into Jaime’s mouth and clutching at his back. 

When they finally parted for air, Ned wanted to ask a hundred things. Jaime reclaimed his mouth before he could decide on any of them. Better that way, Ned decided. He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to pull away. He closed his eyes and marveled at the strangeness of the hard body pressed against his own, of being kissed by someone so much larger and taller than he was. At being kissed at all, after so long. After too long. He was already hard, light-headed with desire, and when Jaime slipped a hand between them to palm Ned through his breeches, he knew it wouldn’t take much to undo him.

Ned turned his head to try catching his breath, and Jaime dropped his face to Ned’s throat, sucking and nipping the skin over his pulse point. His fingers fumbled at Ned’s laces until he managed to free his cock. He seemed to test the feel of it, then kissed Ned’s lips briefly before kneeling.

“Jaime,” Ned choked out.

In answer, Jaime wrapped his mouth around the end of Ned’s length. It wasn’t like his dreams, Jaime’s motions clumsy and sloppy, his eyes shut instead of fixed on Ned’s. It didn’t matter. Too quickly, Ned grabbed at his shoulder and said, “Stop. You should…” Jaime leaned back, eyelids lifting, looking at Ned with abject confusion.

Ned brought himself off a moment later, staring into Jaime’s eyes. He sagged bonelessly against the wall and would’ve been content to sink to the floor and stay there, but Jaime was still watching him, eyes almost wary. Ned pulled him to his feet, then kissed him softly. He felt self-conscious and inept as he reached for Jaime’s cock, but it didn’t take long before the other man spilled with a wordless moan.

Soon as his head had cleared, Ned took in the bathhouse, certain they wouldn’t have gotten away with that unseen. But they were still alone. In its way, that was almost as terrifying. He tipped his head back against the wall, his heart loud in his ears.

Jaime wiped his mouth with his forearm, working his jaw. “What possessed you to kiss me?”

As if the chaste kiss was the part that demanded an explanation.

Ned pulled off his tunic with shaking hands, then stepped out of his breeches and cast his clothes aside before retreating to one of the tubs.

Jaime watched warily, waiting for an answer.

As he sunk into the water, Ned grudgingly acknowledged that Jaime would refuse to explain himself first. Not in this, with his damned pride and fear of embarrassment. Ill-made as Ned was to discuss such things, he forced himself to be plain. “I’ve been fonder of you than is appropriate… for some time. My self-control faltered.”

Jaime looked at Ned so incredulously it was almost humorous. “Some time?”

“Some time,” he repeated, refusing to go into more detail.

“This, it sounds like pining. Proper pining? You haven’t merely decided I’m pretty enough to pass for a woman if I turn around, and—”

“No,” Ned said acidly. 

Jaime frowned as he took this in. After a moment, he finished removing his breeches and stepped into the same tub as Ned, the water shifting as he made himself comfortable. Once he’d settled, he said in a put upon way, “Here I thought you’d merely been seized by a mad whim. Though, it’s fortunate that’s not the case. I’m afraid I wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped to be. Cersei was always more graceful about that.”

“Convincing,” Ned echoed. “What… What did you hope to convince me of?”

“That it’d be worth it to do it again?” Jaime suggested like it was obvious. It probably was, but Ned struggled to get his head around it. “Or will you say it isn’t worth it anyway, despite all your pining? It would be like you, to insist this was ill-advised and dishonorable.”

_It’s probably both._ Ned still didn’t understand. Twenty minutes ago, he would have said this was impossible. He’d never bothered to consider what he’d want from a scenario like this, because he’d never expected it to be an issue. Now, so much that he’d wanted was within reach, and Ned floundered to decide if the risk was worth it, if it constituted breaking his oaths, if it was wise to indulge the improper urges that made him desire a man in the first place.

“What happens if we’re caught?” he asked eventually, assuming Jaime would better know. Ned had been in the south long enough, but he didn’t pay attention to gossip, and had no idea how unacceptable such behavior would be in King’s Landing.

Jaime shrugged. “At worst, a few wagging tongues and crude remarks. Every so often in histories, you’ll read about a knight who ‘never married’ and ‘preferred the company of Ser So-and-So,’ and everyone knows what it means. It’d be like that. People talking _around it,_ without acknowledging the thing.” He added, “If it’s found out. We can be subtle.”

_You just sucked my cock in a bathhouse. Why don’t I believe you?_ But it didn’t sound so reckless, how Jaime put it. Ned gave in with a sigh. “Right. We can…” They could what? Court one another? That wasn’t right. He didn’t want to say _be lovers_ aloud, though perhaps that was most accurate. “We can try… this.”

Jaime tried and failed not to look surprised. “Right. I expected that.”

“We’re on duty soon,” Ned said, standing. They were borderline late, as it was. He’d wash more properly later, when he felt less ridiculously distracted. He did marvel at how closely Jaime’s eyes followed him, his interest as baffling as it was blatant. And he looked so pleased, like Ned had given him a gift. _How long has he hidden this?_ There was no time to get into it. As he reached for a towel, he told Jaime, “ _Both of us_ are on duty. You can’t simply sit there and stare.”

“Can’t I?” Jaime said with good cheer. “I’d like to see Robert’s face if I told him we were late because I’d been appreciating your naked form. He’d envy me.”

“He’d throttle you,” Ned corrected crisply.

“He could try.”

Jaime did climb from the tub, and Ned looked away before remembering he didn’t need to. Jaime had turned by that point, water dripping off him as he walked over to grab a second towel. Second-guessing the wisdom of staring, Ned focused on drying himself so he wouldn’t be distracted by the impulse to stare, aware Jaime would crow about his hypocrisy if he did.

By time he looked up again, Jaime had grown uncharacteristically serious. He caught Ned’s eye, his brow furrowed. “I just recalled… We’d been speaking of Aerys, before you threw yourself at me.”

“We had been,” Ned said warily.

_“_ Perhaps we might bring that up again some time. You’d said it wasn’t important, and I’d been hoping to forget the whole thing, but…” He stopped himself. “But we’ll discuss that later. I’d sooner the dead bastard not get in the way right now.”

“As you wish,” Ned said, his confusion plain in his voice.

Jaime’s strange mood passed, and he startled Ned with an open-mouthed kiss before he backed away to retrieve his clothing. “Come on then, Stark. Stop your staring, or we’ll be late.”

**Epilogue—295**

They snuck out of the Red Keep just before dawn, Jaime’s hair shorn short, both of them in roughspun clothing. Ned had arranged passage for them on a ship the day before, and though he hadn’t believed he’d been recognized, it was a surprise and a relief when the trading galley pulled from the harbor and headed east toward Pentos.

Jaime found him on deck and stood close to his side, their arms pressed together as they looked back at King’s Landing, the Red Keep an ugly, looming shape on Aegon’s High Hill. Neither of them had ever loved it, and Ned wasn’t surprised when Jaime scowled and said, “Good riddance.”

It’d been Ned’s loyalty to Robert and Jon Arryn that kept them in the city for as long as they’d remained. Jaime had suggested they leave after Ned talked Robert into fostering Cassana at Winterfell two years prior, once his son by Cersei had grown old enough it was fairly safe to assume the boy would survive to serve as heir. With the princess gone, promised to Brandon’s oldest son, Jaime’s increasing boredom and intolerance for the king had begun to strain him. But Ned had been unable to imagine turning his back on Robert.

Then Cersei became pregnant again. After the birth, Jaime confessed to Ned that it was with one of their cousins, and not the king. “I’d hoped it would look like Robert, like the others,” Jaime had admitted, “though she’d sworn she wouldn’t bear more of his after birthing an heir. When the girl looked like a Lannister… I already tried to warn her. I swore I’d tell Robert if she didn’t flee, but she didn’t believe me.”

His voice had broken as he spoke, but there’d been permission in the confession. _I understand,_ it meant. _Do what you must._

Robert’s rage had been as fierce as Ned had seen it, and he’d seemed almost happy for the excuse to detach himself from Cersei. Had asked few questions, and began speaking of execution soon as Ned finished speaking. Ned thought she’d earned such punishment, the chances she’d gotten, but he’d promised Jaime he would try to see her spared, and he’d done his best to argue she be set aside and sworn to the Silent Sisters.

After realizing to his own horror that it would be necessary, he’d also argued for the child’s life.

By the end, Jon Arryn had been brought into it, and he’d talked Robert around to Ned’s suggestions. But that calming influence had come too late, and Robert had made clear the thought of anything less than a violent response hurt his pride, that he considered Ned’s disagreement a personal betrayal, and that he blamed that betrayal on Jaime. Ned and Jaime’s relationship wasn’t so well-hidden the king hadn’t known—Ned had correctly predicted that Jaime’s definition of subtlety wasn’t conducive to total secrecy—but it’d been the first time he weaponized that knowledge.

It’d been Robert’s anger, his dismissiveness over even the infant’s life, that pushed Ned into leaving. But those other remarks greatly reduced his guilt over doing so..

“Perhaps there’ll be riots,” Jaime remarked hopefully, “and they’ll cast him off the throne. It’ll look bad for him, the two of us running off and breaking our oaths sooner than remain in his service.”

It wasn’t impossible. Ned’s reputation had always been good, but after he’d coaxed Jaime into speaking with Jon Arryn about the wildfire, the truth of his kingslaying had spread, and he’d become a favorite of smallfolk and nobles alike.

“I pray not,” Ned had to say. “If the gods are good, this will make Robert rethink things.”

“Or he’ll have us hunted and killed for forsaking our vows,” Jaime offered dryly. “That’s always a possibility.”

Ned didn’t think Robert would stoop so low, but he wasn’t in a mood to defend the king, and neglected to respond.

Jaime leaned against Ned’s arm, though not so much anyone looking on would think anything of it. “We never have settled on what’s next. If you ask me, I think a letter to Greywater Watch, perhaps a missive to my father asking for gold enough to hire a company of sellswords, and we could—”

“No,” Ned said firmly. It wasn’t an idea he’d touch. Not yet, while Jon was so young. Not when Jon was still Hand, and not when Robert’s worst crimes as king remained indifference.

“Fine,” Jaime allowed. “We could be sellswords ourselves. Honorable ones. We might form our own company, and keep sterling standards. That’d be particularly convenient if you ever change your mind about that other plan.”

Ned sighed, though he couldn’t help but smile tiredly. “We need not decide immediately. We have to go to Braavos no matter what we do.” He’d written Brandon, and if he’d received Ned’s letter, he’d meet them there with supplies. Likely jests and lewd remarks as well, but there were worse things.

Behind them, King’s Landing had all but faded from view. Ned could just barely make out the jut of the White Sword Tower along the edge of the Red Keep. He found himself wondering what Ser Barristan would write in the White Book when he realized what’d happened. What future Kingsguard would think when they read what would surely be an unflattering conclusion to their pages.

He supposed it didn’t matter. He and Jaime had always made the choices they could live with. If that meant dishonor in the eyes of some, it was a sacrifice they were both willing to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finished! I wasn't satisfied with some of the conclusion, so I ended up changing a couple scenes and adding an epilogue. Hopefully you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading this, and for the kudos and comments.
> 
> [doubtful_guest also did a lovely [fan art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247928) of the Lannisport Tourney if you'd like to take a look at that :D].


End file.
